


The Way You Look Tonight

by freddi11



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: (chapter 12) A Platonic Ship, (hints of) mental health issues, But there is a brief moment that will leave everyone including themselves wondering, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Meddling Friends, Mild Angst, Mutual Pining, a very slow burn, possible tooth-rotting ending, stupid decisions and their aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 14:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 73,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17387885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freddi11/pseuds/freddi11
Summary: The year is 2006 and a plane has just taken off from Antigua airport. Aboard, two young cricketers. Who start talking to each other for the first time.Little do they know that this is only the beginning - of a beautiful friendship, but could it turn into something more? And what would happen if it did?The Story Of Cookerson - a very slow burning story with occasional painful misunderstandings, arguments, meddling but helpful friends, definitely too many feelings and hopefully a  lot of "oh you idiots, TALK to each other".  Just what you'd expect from those two.There will also be a song to go with each chapter. Something I thought fits the mood.Enjoy the ride.





	1. On A Plane

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the full soundtrack:  
> 1) Arrival of the Queen of Sheba - Georg Friedrich Händel  
> 2) What's Up - 4 Non Blondes  
> 3) Eye of the Tiger - Survivor  
> 4) 500 Miles - The Proclaimers  
> 5) This Fire - Franz Ferdinand  
> 6) How Far We've Come - Matchbox Twenty  
> 7) The Way You Look Tonight - Frank Sinatra  
> 8) Do You Want To - Franz Ferdinand  
> 9) (first half) Sarabande - Georg Friedrich Händel (second half) Yours To Hold - Skillet  
> 10) Castle Of Glass - Linkin Park  
> 11) Easier To Run - Linkin Park  
> 12) My Silver Lining - First Aid Kit  
> 13) Rabbia E Tarantella - Ennio Morricone  
> 14) I Will Wait - Mumford and Sons  
> 15) Life Is Good - Flogging Molly  
> 16) Concerning Hobbits - Howard Shore  
> 17) Chevaliers De Sangreal - Hans Zimmer  
> 18) Hoppipólla - Sigur Rós

Most people, whether or not they admit it, wait for something big to happen in their lives.

A moment straight out of the movies. In which time slows down, whole fortunes change with the power of just one sentence. And everything falls into place.

People like to think they are prepared for such a moment.

 

„The last time we met, you called me a cunt.”

An honest, friendly statement, without even a hint of annoyance or anger.

Curious dark brown eyes study Jimmy. Who is momentarily lost for words.

That was the last thing he expected.

Even though he’s spent the entire day - since the taxi came to collect them after breakfast - trying to come up with a good way to start the conversation. And was half-ready for an embarrassed, even awkward silence all the way to London. (Because one thing was obvious to Jimmy: his travel companion could remember.)

 

Suddenly the temperature in the cabin seems to have risen a couple of degrees. Sheepishly, Jimmy clears his throat, feels a blush creeping up his cheeks. Studies his shoelaces which are very interesting all of a sudden.

Which is something else that surprises him. He doesn’t know that … Alastair Cook at all. So why does he feel compelled to make amends? For an off-hand comment, not the first one he’s made on a cricket field? (He knows his temper does get the best of him sometimes, it’s something he’s been working on for a while – with varying success. So, what exactly makes this incident so different?)

Even if he can’t figure out the reason for his reaction, an honest question (and it was a question – _who are you?_ ) deserves an honest answer.

“Please don’t take that personally. I do it to most people when I’m playing. I’m… different off the pitch.” Jimmy mumbles into Alastair’s general direction. Feels heat radiating off his cheeks. Rolls his eyes at himself.

Looks up slowly.

And experiences yet another surprise.

He’s met with a soft, amused chuckle and – a disarming smile.

(Wow. He is handsome.)

“Glad to hear.” Alastair replies and laughs again. Sounds strangely relieved. “So, what are you really like?” Alastair leans forward, rests his chin on his left hand.

“What do you want to know? Oh, thanks, Owais.” Jimmy takes a cookie out of the bag their teammate hands over.

“Everything.” Alastair replies between mouthfuls of coconut and chocolate (Jimmy notices he’s helped himself to a handful.). “I don’t even know your birthday, to begin with.” “July 30. 82. You?” “December 25. 84.” “You’re not even 22 yet? Wow. And, you have my sympathies.” Jimmy laughs. “What for?” A bemused look. “A birthday on Christmas?” Jimmy explains. “That must be especially annoying?”. “It was. Back when I was singing in the choir.” “You…?” “Yes.” Alastair grins. “Until my voice broke.” Jimmy takes his shoes off, makes himself comfortable, feet tucked under his legs. “A choirboy! I would never have guessed. Tell me more.”

 

The ice is broken. And the hours on the plane seem to – literally – fly by.

After a bit of small talk about their families they somehow find themselves in an increasingly intense discussion whether batting or bowling constitutes the true art of cricket (which, much to Owais’ amusement, lasts almost two hours and during which they vehemently try to convince each other that the other has actually got no idea at all).

At some point, Jimmy – because he’s starting to feel a bit restless - takes a little blue ball out of his carry-on bag, throws it at Alastair without warning. Who catches it with his left hand, throws it back as hard as he can. A frantic game ensues. Every delivery, every catch is commentated – and more often than not, laughed at.

Gradually, without noticing, they start to feel at ease with each other. Commiserate about the difficulties of being an introvert playing a team sport, wind each other up about their respective counties in the domestic championship and the other’s local dialect (Jimmy’s attempt has Alastair doubling over with laughter). Realise that their sense of humour – quiet, but sarcastic – is very similar as well.

 

And ten hours later, over a very helpful double-strength espresso in the transit area of Heathrow Airport, Jimmy finds himself talking about that county match last year again. Feels like he needs to add to his apology, explain himself a bit more. The words escape him before he can rein them in. “There’s a reason I said what I said last time.” Jimmy shrugs and can’t help but grin as he remembers the moment he saw the Essex team sheet. “I heard about your double century for Essex last summer. Against the Aussies. And I thought to myself, maybe this boy’s a bit full of himself. If he’s that good at his age. So, I tried to sledge you. As I always do. Only…” He laughs. “It was no use at all. You’re the first cricketer I met who’s utterly unsledgeable.”

“That’s a word?” Alastair raises an eyebrow and grins back at Jimmy.

 

Before Jimmy can think of a reply, Alastair’s phone buzzes. Jimmy is glad for the interruption. Some of the colour drains from Alastair’s face as he reads the message. “What’s going on?” Jimmy asks interestedly. “Got a text.” Alastair hands his phone over with slightly unsteady hands. “It’s from Fred.”

“ _ **Vaughany’ll almost certainly not be fit. Get ready for your Test debut, mate! ;-) Freddie** _x” “I didn’t… I never…” Alastair trails off, blushes.(And what a pretty blush. Only adds to what is already a very fascinating face.)

_Not helpful, Jimmy. Pull yourself together._

 

Jimmy leans across the table. Looks Alastair directly in the eyes.

“No need to panic. You’ll be fine. You’re good. Really bloody good. I could see that for myself last year. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. And … I’m also here. I haven’t played many tests so far. But I think I can help you.”

A grateful and very relieved smile. And a wink. “You were right, you know?” “About what?”

(And Jimmy will re-play that sentence in his mind over and over again in the years to come.) “You really are completely different.”

Alastair’s face is hard to read. There’s only a hint of a smile on his lips, but Jimmy can’t fail to notice a spark in his travel companion’s eyes. Wonders what he’s thinking. It has to be something good. At least that’s what Jimmy hopes.

 

Boarding on their flight is about to begin.

In amicable silence they wander over to the gate, line up with the other passengers.

And have no idea that this was only the beginning.

 

Music for chapter 1: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-TGKJ9MgCOQ The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba by Georg Friedrich Händel. Because it captures that curious and expectant feeling of That Plane Journey.


	2. Antipodean sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 2008, ahead of the first ODI between New Zealand and England in Wellington.  
> Jimmy learns just how powerful the sun down under can be.

"Your turn, Jimmy.”

No response.

Kevin tries again. “Oi! James! You’re up next!”

“Huh?” Jimmy can hardly hear his teammate. His head feels like it is stuck in a vice. Even though he’s wearing quite dark sunglasses – bought yesterday afternoon in Cuba Street – he can hardly see the nets ahead of him, let alone make out people at the other end of it. Well, it really is a blinding hot summer’s day here in Wellington. Somehow, he always forgets just how bright the sun gets down under.

“Come on now, Jimmy lad, you’re keeping everyone waiting.” Ian says, amused. “What are you dreaming about?” “The missus, obviously.” someone pipes up. Of course. Bound to happen when twenty young men spend months together, travelling all over the world.

(If only they knew.)

 

“Will you give me a second for fuck’s sake? “Jimmy snaps. Feels an intense wave of nausea coming on. Tries to keep his breathing as steady as he can. _What is wrong with me?_

“No need to go all Australian on me!” Kevin replies with a resigned sigh. “Swanny, do you want to do the honours instead? I’d really rather get this over with as soon as possible. It’s quite hot with the pads on.”

Swanny shoots Jimmy a look and grabs one of the red leather balls. “Okay, watch this, everyone-“

 

_I need to go. Now._

Jimmy only manages to take one step towards the umbrellas and plastic chairs behind him. Suddenly, without warning, the ground starts spinning, seems to rise up to meet him and –

“SHIT!” someone yells, slightly panicked. (Stuart? Or was that Cooky?)

Swanny drops the ball in shock. 

 

Footsteps come running. A strong pair of arms catches Jimmy before he can hit the ground, helps him lie down. A towel is shoved under his head. Someone else (Colly, maybe. Jimmy can’t tell. Can’t open his eyes because of the searing pain behind them) grabs his legs, puts them up on the nearest chair.

“Someone get us some water!” Michael shouts, more nervous than he’d intended to. “And something with sugar in it.”  “On it!” Stuart replies and runs off.

“Stop fussing. I’m fine.” Jimmy croaks. Wants to get up (the whole situation is becoming rather awkward) but is gently – and firmly – pushed back down.

 

“No. Stay down.” a very familiar voice says in a friendly but resolute way. There’s only a hint of worry behind it. “You almost fainted.” A hand softly squeezes Jimmy’s left shoulder.

“Cooky?” Jimmy’s headache and nausea ease off a bit.

 

Slowly, he peels his eyes open. Sees five slightly blurred and worried faces looking at him from above.  Cooky is crouching next to his left ear, hand still on his shoulder. “Welcome back.” he says with a sympathetic smile. “Sun got you?” Jimmy makes an affirmative noise.

Stuart comes running with a glass in one hand and a small metal box in the other. “Mints’ll have to do. Couldn’t find anything else.” “No problem.” Michael replies. “Drink this, Jimmy. It will help.” “But slowly or you’ll get sick.” Paul adds. “Speaking from experience.”

Cooky and Stuart help Jimmy get in a slightly more upright position and Michael hands him the water.

Jimmy sips as slowly as he can, enjoys the cool liquid running down his throat. Swallows a handful of mints and feels a tiny bit of energy returning to his limbs. (It’s still quite embarrassing.)

 

“You okay, mate?” Swanny sits down next to him. “Scared us there for a bit!” For once, not even Swanny-of-the-perpetual-jokes feels like taking the mickey. Which tells Jimmy that things may have been a bit more serious than he initially thought.

Cooky’s hand still hasn’t moved from Jimmy’s shoulder.

(Weird how that … calms him. For want of a better word.)

 

“Back with us, Jimmy?” Michael asks with a half-smile. “You’re off training for the rest of the day. Don’t want to run any risks with a sunstroke. Someone take him back to his room please.”

“I’ll do it.” Cooky instantly replies. Ignores the raised eyebrows and “of course”-s behind him.

 

“Thanks Ali. And stay with him. Make sure he gets a proper rest. The rest of you – back in the pavilion. We’ll take a break for twenty minutes. Drink enough! I don’t want anyone else knocked out today.” the captain says and grabs his bat.

The rest of the team follows him, glad for the rest.

 

“Get well soon, Jimmy!” Paul says. “Cooky, when he’s too much of a pain, text me.” “I’m at your disposal, let me know if you need a break.” Swanny adds with one of his favourite shit-eating grins. Jimmy wants to roll his eyes at him, but his headache, much to his annoyance, prevents him from doing so.

 

Soon, everyone else has left.

“Think you can get up?” Cooky asks gently. “I’ll try.” “Just hold on, I’ll keep you steady.”

Cooky puts one arm around Jimmy’s shoulders, grabs his left hand and pulls him to his feet as carefully as he can manage. “Let me know if we need to stop. We’ve got plenty of time. And I’ll get you a painkiller once we’re in your room.”

 

Whatever retort Jimmy had to offer – “yes, Dad” or something like it– is quickly erased from his thoughts as they make their way back to the air-conditioned hotel lobby.  He’s still in a bit of pain – although now his headache has turned into a dull throbbing rather than the agony it was before.  

 

Couldn’t care less at the moment though.  There’s an utterly fascinating (mesmerising? hard to find the right adjective right now and what is he thinking anyway) arm around Jimmy’s shoulders, gently steadying him as they stop at the reception to grab the key to his room off the board. A weirdly intense sensation.

“You alright, Jim?” Cooky’s voice breaks through Jimmy’s increasingly confused thoughts. (What _is going on._ Cooky is his best friend. He’s not … well, he’s just that.) “Why?” “You grumbled something. Do you want to sit down while I get the lift?” “Nah, I’m fine. Ish. Just need the bed.” Jimmy shrugs (and rolls his eyes at himself).

 

While they wait for the lift, Jimmy – instinctively – leans a bit closer to Cooky. Feels very tired all of a sudden. Yawns. “We’ve almost made it. You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.” Cooky says, squeezes his shoulder affectionately. “And don’t worry, there’s nothing embarrassing about it.” _Since when does he read my mind?_

The lift doors open with a “ping” and they step in.

 

“You don’t have to stay with me if you don’t want to.” Jimmy says as they pause outside his hotel room while Cooky fiddles with the key.  “Well I do… I mean, someone needs to look after you.” Cooky says and opens the door. “I’ll get something from room service later.”

(Was it just Jimmy’s imagination or did his friend blush for a second? Maybe Jimmy hit his head today after all. He really isn’t thinking straight. Okay, he’s never able to do tha... god, he needs to stop.)

 

Jimmy sits down on his bed, pulls off his shorts and training shirt. Is suddenly very much aware that he’s only wearing boxer shorts. But Cooky doesn’t seem to mind. Weirdly.

“I’m guessing you don’t want to shower?”

Jimmy just stares at him.

“Okay, fine. Let me just get you an Ibuprofen for your head. They’re in the black bag in the bathroom, right?” “Yep.” Jimmy closes his eyes and enjoys the cool feeling of the hotel linens on his thighs. Wonders if he’s got a sunburn as well.

Over the past two years, both Jimmy and Cooky have gotten used to each other’s way of organising their belongings on a tour. It’s barely two minutes before Cooky returns with a pill and some water.

“Thanks mate.” Jimmy swallows the medicine, drains the glass in one go and – finally – lies down. Stifles a sigh at the blissful relief of it all.  Pulls the blanket up and closes his eyes.

 

“Sleep well, Jim.” Ali smiles. “I’m here if you need anything.”

The only answer he gets is a gentle snore. Out like a log – as usual.

Ali grabs one of the books from the bedside table – _Fever Pitch_ by Nick Hornby, something that’s “essential to understanding the football freaks in your life” as Jimmy put it – makes himself comfortable in the armchair next to the bed and starts to read. Sneaks the occasional glance over to the figure next to him.

It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy spending time with the other lads. On the contrary.

But Ali’s also fundamentally, always, aware that there’s only so much “people” he can take per day. That he does get irritated and exhausted if he has to be “on” for more than a few hours at a time (unless it’s a matchday). So, if he’s being honest with himself, he’s really rather happy that he gets to have a quiet evening today.

 

Swanny pops his head round after dinner, carries a plate of seafood spaghetti. “Knew you didn’t want to come down. But you couldn’t miss those. They’re excellent.” “Thanks Graeme.” Ali carries it over to the table. A pleasant smell – garlic, herbs and shrimps – fills the room.

“How is our idiot?” Swanny asks and cocks an eyebrow. “Sleeping.” “Not annoying you too much?” Ali laughs quietly. “I’ll let you know in case he does.” “And we don’t let him go out tomorrow unless he’s wearing a hat like Stuart.” Graeme insists. “If you want to risk it, go ahead. Just for the record: I did warn you.” Ali points out and winks.

Swanny chuckles. “Have a good night.”

(For some reason he doesn’t even ask if – or when – Ali plans on going back to his room.)

 

After dinner – Swanny didn’t exaggerate, the pasta was fantastic – Ali reads on for a bit. It is a really well-written, funny and insightful book, even for the only casual football fan. So much so that when Ali next looks at his watch, it is nearly 10 pm.

Time for bed.

 

Ali quietly leaves Jimmy’s room, goes downstairs to get his own key, up to his room again, showers quickly, pulls his pyjama on (hopes he doesn’t run into one of his teammates on the way back) and slips back into Jimmy’s room 15 minutes later.

It feels like the most natural thing to do. Even though they’ve never done this before.

Keeping a safe distance from Jimmy – quite easy in the giant comfortable bed – Ali curls up under the blanket.

And is fast asleep as soon as he’s switched off the lights.

 

When Jimmy wakes up again, an intense red and orange glow fills the room. Sunrise.

He yawns and stretches, feeling relaxed and refreshed. The headache – thankfully – has disappeared.

As his eyes adjust to the light, Jimmy becomes aware of something brushing his right index finger.

He turns his head and sees – to his immense wonder – Cooky. Curled up in a ball, fast asleep next to him. With a slight smile on his face. Hasn’t left his side for even one instant, apparently.

And for some reason, Cooky’s left hand, stretched out on the mattress, is only inches away from Jimmy’s. Weird. Jimmy wonders how that happened.

Smiling to himself, Jimmy rolls over to his side.

_I’m glad I’ve got him._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/6NXnxTNIWkc  
> Song to go with this one - keeping things light and casual but slightly confusing (at least for Jimmy).


	3. The colour of shower tiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cardiff, the first Test of the 2009 Ashes series.  
> Ali hides in the showers and tries to keep his nerves under control. And has some very weird thoughts.

274.

274 tiles, rectangles and squares.

Some dark blue, others – the majority – a faded, slightly yellowish white.

274 tiles line the showers of Sophia Gardens in Cardiff.

Ali has counted them. Every single one.

 

Sits on the floor of the shower, his back against the wall, plays with a (the) small blue ball (how did Jimmy not notice that he pinched it from his kitbag this morning?). His hands have not stopped shaking for the best part of the last hour.

Flinches whenever he hears a cheer or applause from outdoors. Waits to hear the Richies. Or the first strands of “Under the Southern Cross I stand.” To find out that it’s over. That Jimmy and Monty’s heroic fight – 69 balls, so little and yet so many at the same time – was ultimately in vain.

That the Australians won after all. And took an 1-0 lead in the series.

 

It’s unfair that he’s this nervous. Ali knows that.

Both Monty and Jimmy have done the job as Tailenders before. They do what to know with the bat.

 

But it’s the Ashes. The series with the smallest trophy – and the biggest history.

Five weeks during which even ordinary events become heavy, almost overburdened with meaning. Where every decision matters more than usual. Every ball feels like it’s the most important ball of the day. And all eyes are on you from the moment preparations begin.

 

Ali loves them – and hates them at the same time.

 

Wonders, not for the first time, how Straussy is dealing with the pressure. They’ve learned to read each other well over the many hours they’ve spent in the field so far. Can communicate without words, with just a tiny wink or a raised eyebrow. It’s part of what makes them such good opening partners.

But there’s no denying Straussy changed over the last couple of weeks. Has started to isolate himself a bit from the rest of the team, hardly ever joins in their games in the evening, spends most of the day in tactics discussions with Andy and the rest of the coaching staff. The easy smile and dry humour have all but disappeared.

 

If they’re all feeling the pressure of a home Ashes series, it must undoubtedly be a million times worse for Straussy. He has to face the press every day, he’s the one in the spotlight, he carries everyone’s expectations on his shoulders.

_I’m so glad I’m not captain. Yet._

 

Yet? Where exactly did that come from?

Ali has heard the talk for a while now. That he’s next in line once (and let’s hope that’s still a while off) Straussy feels he wants to move on. Had to put up with Swanny (and Jimmy of course, because he can’t resist a good wind-up) calling him FEC for three days straight during the series in the West Indies.

 

FEC.

Future England Captain.

 

A nickname like a double-edged sword. Full of praise, but at the same time – expectations. Many expectations. That Ali isn’t sure he can handle just yet. He’s more than happy to keep learning and keep supporting Straussy (who needs him. desperately.) For the time being at least.

 

What.

For the time being?

_Am I starting to see myself as captain? Now? At the nail-biting end of the first Ashes test which we could very well lose every minute? Which … wait. No. That was the Barmy Army right now. I think. Calm down, Ali. It ain’t over till the fat lady sings. Whatever that means. Oh god I need to pull myself together. I am a mess._

 

Ali throws the ball up, catches it with his left hand.

 

If he’s being honest with himself, he has thought about it before. What it would be like to stand there at the Oval, after a successful Ashes series. To be handed the tiny urn, lift it to the sky with one hand – or both? – and feel on top of the world. “At my command, unleash heaven.” or something. To be talked about in that reverent tone that’s currently reserved for Vaughany. Or Sir Ian Botham.

What would it be like, a “Cook’s Ashes?” What would have to happen? For people to reminisce about a series even decades later, to always – eternally – connect it with him as the successful captain?

_I can never – NEVER let anyone know that I’m thinking stuff like that. Not even Jimmy._

_Jimmy._

 

A shiver runs down Ali’s spine.

He sees Jimmy’s quite pale, tense face as he padded up just an hour ago.

Ali wanted to say something. To encourage Jimmy, build up Jimmy’s confidence, let him know that he was there – in spirit. That he was convinced his friend (his _best_ friend) could pull this off, could see out the day with the bat. (Jimmy will never get entirely comfortable with it, that’s an undeniable truth. But there’s something almost endearing about him when he’s batting.)

They always have a quick word before Ali goes out to bat. Exchange a wink and a smile when Jimmy starts his run-up with the new ball. Constantly remind each other – with grins and thumbs-ups and “keep going mate”-s that they’re there for each other. That they’ll see each other through the day. Whatever happens.

 

But today, for some, unfathomable reason, Ali could not get a single word out. “Go well” or “Just do what I’d do” or “you’ll do fine” – everything evaporated the moment their eyes met before Jimmy left the dressing room.

Jimmy’s face was completely unreadable – to someone who doesn’t know him well, at least.

Ali saw something else.

Something new.

A vulnerability, a slight – almost imperceptible – bit of anxiety, maybe even a silent plea to his best friend to “help me get through this please.”

It took Ali’s breath away.

(It was the most stunning expression he’d ever seen on Jimmy’s face. (which, contrary to popular belief, is capable of more than just a scowl). Unbelievable.)

He only managed a slightly shaky smile. And a nod.

Watched Jimmy walk off, downstairs, out to the middle.

 

And then, when Paul’s wicket fell, Ali knew he could not bear it any longer. Could not wait up there, with the others, until the inevitable happened and Monty or Jimmy got out. Until their fightback was ended, suddenly, in the blink of an eye. By an inswinger, or a lbw – or something else entirely.

He made up an excuse – “I’m going to see if I can find David’s gloves” – put the blue ball in his pocket and left the dressing room before Swanny could say something. Pull his leg.

Wandered off until he found the showers.

 

Which is where he’s been sitting ever since.

Ali doesn’t know what time it is. Didn’t take his watch with him because he knew he’d be unable to tear his eyes away from the fine black hands on the light blue background.

Knows – if he’s being rational (which he’s finding increasingly hard to do) – that he’d find it out easily if he got up and looked out of the windows, tried to see where the sun was. (Which is something he’s been teaching himself for a while – guessing the time by looking at the position of the sun on the sky. Cricket does provide you with the most unusual skills sometimes.)

 

But looking out of the windows would also mean looking downstairs – at the field. And seeing if they’re still there, out in the middle. If Jimmy’s still hanging on, face screwed up in concentration, gripping his bat as if he was a shipwrecked sailor in the middle of the ocean.

 

_It should never have come down to you, Jimmy. I’m sorry._

As if Ali didn’t have enough weird thoughts to deal with this afternoon. Of course, he’s annoyed at himself for getting out cheaply. But this isn’t the first time. It happens. Shit happens. Especially in Test cricket. And again, it’s not the first time that Jimmy had to rescue an innings.

 

So why does he feel personally responsible? Like he needs to make this up to Jimmy?

What on earth is going on with him?

 

A sudden explosion of noise – applause and loud cheers – startles Ali. Sends him tailspinning into a fresh panic. He can’t make out any words. Doesn’t know if it’s the Aussies, celebrating the final wicket – or their supporters, celebrating an unlikely and heroic draw. Doesn’t want to know – and at the same time, he also does.

 

Ali hugs his knees close to his chest, takes deep breaths. Tries to calm himself – and that little nagging voice at the back of his mind that keeps telling him “you should be used to this by now”.

Footsteps, urgent footsteps, come closer.

“Where for fuck’s sake is he?”

That was Swanny.

Did he sound angry? No, Swanny never does. (He’s probably gearing up to give Ali stick.)

 

“Ali?”

An unmistakeable voice, traces of a South African accent. Straussy. Sounds almost amused. Does this mean they’ve done it? Monty and Jimmy, the most unlikely 10th wicket-partnership in recent history? They’ve survived? It’s 18:40 and the match –

“I’m here!” Ali shouts, his curiosity getting the better of him.

 

Swanny and Straussy come running, pause in the doorway of the showers. Both momentarily lost for words – and very obviously trying not to laugh.

 

“You hid in here?” Swanny tries to keep a straight face. Wanders over to Ali, pulls him to his feet. “So?” Ali replies, a mixture of nerves and embarrassment. “How…?”

Straussy’s relief is obvious. “Draw.” he says, a wide grin – the first Ali has seen in a while – taking over his face. “They did it.”

Ali lets out a slightly shaky breath. “Wow.” Hugs Straussy, then Swanny.

“I know, it’s a bloody miracle.” Swanny laughs, pats Ali on the back. “You coming downstairs? We need to give them a heroes’ welcome!” “You bet!” Ali replies, grinning as well, and winks at Straussy. _See? I told you our plan was good. Relax._

Straussy gives an almost imperceptible nod – _thanks mate_ – and they set off to join the rest of the team.

 

Jimmy and Monty take their time on the way back to the pavilion. Soak up the applause, the cheers, feel the tension ease that has kept them hyper-focused for the past 69 balls. Everything to play for. When everything looked like the Australians would go 1-0 up.

 

Tailenders. Something neither of them particularly fancies – but today, they’ve done their job. And done it well.  For the first time, Jimmy feels somewhat proud to be a number 10 batsman. (Not that he’s ever going to tell Cooky. That would only encourage him.)

 

_Cooky, I listened. I did what you told me in the nets last week. And it worked. It really did._

Jimmy knows he’s smiling from one ear to the other. Hardly feels his calves burn as he climbs up the stairs.

Can’t wait to see his face again.

 

Straussy pulls both Jimmy and Monty into a hug. “You were fantastic, lads.” “Thanks.” Monty says, wipes his brow. “I can’t wait to hit the shower.” “After you, then.” the captain says with a grand gesture and steps aside to let them meet the rest of the team, receive all the back pats, handshakes, hugs and compliments they earned.

 

And finally – after almost two anxious hours – Ali and Jimmy meet again. Stop in the middle of the balcony, take a moment to just stand there and look at each other.

Jimmy, head slightly tilted to the left, his bat (he should really learn to take better care of it! especially because he doesn’t get as many as ~~actual~~ (unfair, Ali.) specialist batsmen) hanging loosely from his right hand, has got that half-smile that Ali only sees on rare occasions. That Jimmy seems to reserve for Ali, these days.

It’s a special look. Cheeky – and slightly shy.

Ali really enjoys it every time he’s allowed to see it.

“You ok?” Jimmy asks, sounds a tiny bit worried. “You’re pale.”

“It’s nothing.  I was a bit tense. Come here, you genius.” Ali wraps his arms around Jimmy, who sighs softly and closes his eyes for a moment.

_Wish I could slow down time. Just for an instant._

_Okay. Enough weirdness for today, brain. Could you remember we’ve just pulled off something great?_

Ali rolls his eyes at himself and grins at Jimmy, one hand still on his best friend’s shoulder.

_Did I ever notice that his eyes are a bit lighter brown in the summer?_

 

_Alastair Nathan Cook, stop it right now._

“Off you go, mate, put your feet up! You earned it.” Ali says and pats Jimmy on the back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/btPJPFnesV4
> 
> And here's the song for chapter 3. To capture the tension and thrill of that famous last stand.


	4. 500 Miles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 2010, at the MCG, England have retained the Ashes.  
> A party starts which will last well into the night. And reveal certain things to certain people.

Are there any cricket grounds on earth more magnificent than the MCG?

96.000 (hard to imagine unless you’re actually standing out in the middle) seats, usually jam-packed, an intimidating place on the best of days and at times – especially during the Ashes – an unfriendly, downright hostile cauldron of patriotic Australian fervour.

And yet, Ali and Jimmy would not want to be anywhere else right now.

 

The MCG is a sea of red and white.

What little Australian supporters have remained in the ground are unusually quiet, perhaps even friendly.

Subdued, stunned, by the culmination of four days of unbelievable English cricket (even though the writing was on the wall when an on-fire Chris and Jimmy bowled them out for 98 (ninety. eight.) in the first innings).

 

They have retained the Ashes.

Retained.  It bears repeating. A word that hasn’t been used in connection with an English cricket team for the best part of three decades.

 

Straussy, beaming from one ear to the other, leads the triumphant team around the ground – very, very slowly. Savours each moment from yet another (so very well deserved) victory lap. Another glorious early afternoon, full of cheers, laughter, applause, hilarious – and some downright nasty - Barmy Army songs. Only the beginning of what is surely going to be a very long party.

 

“It doesn’t get much better than this!” Stuart hugs Ali from behind, has to yell to make himself understood over the general racket.

Ali simply grins in reply. Is still too dazed (did this really happen?) to say anything else. Swanny winks at him, tells everyone to stop. _What is he up to now? Oh, wait. Of course._

As if on cue (which they don’t need anymore, they’ve been doing this completely silly, bonkers and yet so very hilarious thing for the past three weeks), everyone breaks out into yet another sprinkler dance. Laughter and cheers from the stands, about half of their supporters join in. 

 

Ali lets himself hang back until he’s caught up with Jimmy. Puts an arm around his best friend’s shoulders, gives them a squeeze. “Come up with anything for Straussy yet?” “Other than the ice bath?” Jimmy laughs, side-hugs Ali. “Nope. I’ll leave that to Belly and Swanny.”

 

Arm in arm, they follow the procession indoors and to their cabin. Angry voices – many of them, all unmistakably Australian – trickle down the corridor. Apparently, their opponents did not waste any time getting started on the post-mortem. They hear shouts of “I fucking knew that! Stop blaming me!” and “If you’d bothered to listen on Wednesday…” and the sound of bats being slammed against walls.

“Poor lads.” Matty says only half-earnestly, opens the door and lets everyone wander inside, flop down on the benches and the floor. They turn around to their captain, look at him expectantly.

Straussy, now visibly emotional, takes a moment to collect himself.

“Lads.” He almost chokes himself off. Has to swallow once, twice, before he can finish the rest of the sentence. “Do you have any idea just how proud I am of every single one of you? Thank you.”

Matty starts clapping and soon, everyone joins in.

Ali, knowing Straussy is on the verge of losing it completely, gets up and embraces his opening partner as tightly as he can. “It’s over. We did it.” he whispers. Straussy simply pats his back in response.

“Anyway,” the captain continues once he’s collected himself, a massive grin now spreading across his face, “I don’t think you want to hear anything else from me… so let’s get this party started!”

 

Paul opens the crate behind him and hands out a cold beer to everyone. Matt plugs his IPhone into the speakers, turns the volume up to eleven – “Off we go!”

 

Song after song, chant after chant. A few Barmy Army Christmas specials thrown in for good measure. They dissect the innings – “did you see my catch?”; “that ball was superb!”; “I thought Ponting was straight up going to murder you when you got him out” – laugh, relax.

Lose track of time after a while. Their initial plans to ask the Australians over for a few drinks after their debrief/post-mortem have long since been thrown out of the window. They wouldn’t be able to appreciate it just yet. And anyway – it’s their day (evening?). There’s plenty of time to be generous. Later.

 

Ali has made himself comfortable in the corner of the dressing room, stretched his feet out, taken off his socks and shoes. Watches the others – increasingly – make complete fools out of themselves with a wide, satisfied smile (He’s always had more fun staying on the sidelines. Thankfully, everyone (with the very occasional exception of Swanny) accepts that.).

It’s days like today that remind him why he loves what he does.

Sitting on the floor, in a famous cricket ground, surrounded by some of his best friends, feeling the complete unreserved joy that comes with a series victory. Feeling proud to have played a part, privileged to be able to do this.

 

He looks for Jimmy. Finds him on the other side of the room, with his phone out and one of his favourite shit-eating grins on his face, filming Finny’s and Stuart’s increasingly clumsy attempts at dancing (their size only adds to it).

Jimmy realises Ali has been watching him. Winks and wants to say something but is interrupted by Swanny (as usual) who’s walked over to the speakers and turns the music down without warning.

“Oi! Are you mental?” “Swanny…?” Paul can’t hide his apprehension. He’s been around Swanny long enough – all of them have - to wonder if he may be up to something.

“Not yet.” Swanny winks at Belly. “Some of you said you wanted to do a bit of karaoke? Go on then.”

 

He’s met with laughter – some slightly relieved – and lots of cheers. “Nice idea, Swanny!” Monty pats him on the back. “Who’s up first?”

 

To Ali’s slight bewilderment, Jimmy stands up.

Ali shoots him a look. _You sure about this?_ It’s not like Jimmy to draw attention to himself.

“I’ve been meaning to do this for a while.” Jimmy says and nods in Ali’s direction. Scrolls through the music stored on Matty’s phone until he finds what he’s looking for.

 

“Lads.” Jimmy draws himself up to his full height. “I’d like to dedicate this song to someone very special in this dressing room. To the love of my life, my other half – Swanny, that’s for you.” he adds with a flourish and bows to general applause.

“Love you.” Swanny shouts and blows him a kiss.

An expectant silence falls over the dressing room.

Jimmy hits “play”.

(He’d never do this in front of everyone, but special times call for special measures.)

Loses himself in the lyrics of this old-time favourite song.

_When I wake up_

_Well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who wakes up next to you_

(It’s nearly always the other way around. You’re up at sunrise, almost every day. However you manage to do that. You only wake me up with your snoring.)

_When I go out_

_Well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who goes along with you_

(How many nights have we spent together, over the last 4 years? Must be close to a hundred.)

_When I get drunk_

_Well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you_

_And If I haver_

_Well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who’s havering to you_

(Sorry about that. Yes, I know I already apologised about sixteen times.)

 

_But I would walk five hundred miles_

(It’s not 500 miles between your place and mine, is it?)

_And I would walk five hundred more_

(It’s more like 180. I think.)

_Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles_

_To fall down at your door_

_When I'm working, yes, I know I'm gonna be_

_I'm gonna be the man who's working hard for you_

(Always. I’ll support you. Whatever we’re doing.)

_And when the money comes in for the work I do_

_I'll pass almost every penny on to you_

_When I come home (When I come home), oh, I know I'm gonna be_

_I'm gonna be the man who comes back home to you_

(I always relax the minute I see you when we meet up for a series. It’s almost like coming home.)

_And if I grow old, well, I know I'm gonna be_

_I'm gonna be the man who's growing old with you_

(Now here’s a nice thought. For me to play with you for England until we both retire.)

 

_When I'm lonely, well, I know I'm gonna be_

_I'm gonna be the man who's lonely without you_

(Every time.)

_And when I'm dreaming, well, I know I'm gonna dream_

_I'm gonna dream about the time when I'm with you_

(Because back in Antigua, I never dreamed that this would happen.)

_When I go out (When I go out), well, I know I'm gonna be_

_I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you_

(Always. Nights out, holidays and tours. I’ll be there.)

_And when I come home (When I come home), yes, I know I'm gonna be_

_I'm gonna be the man who comes back home with you_

_I'm gonna be the man who's coming home with you_

Jimmy doesn’t see anything around him.

Only a pair of dark brown eyes in the far corner of the dressing room, watching him intently.

_It’s you._

_It’s always been you._

_Shit._

Jimmy is startled by raucous applause around him. Realises the song has been over for a while. And he’s still standing there, immobile, transfixed, completely disappeared up his own head.

_Shit. Shit. Shit. I need to get out._

“Thanks! I’m just going to catch a bit of fresh air, be right back.” he says, tries to sound as casual as he can. Hopes Ali didn’t hear the slight uncertainty in his voice and decides to follow him. Starts to feel the first signs of a panic attack.

Jimmy pushes his way past KP who’s carrying a few boxes – of course, they did order pizza - almost races out of the door and down to the field. Almost hears his legs scream in protest as he climbs the steep, now deserted stairs, hurries up the stands as far as he can. Can’t focus on anything other than his heart racing in his ears and his ragged, unsteady breathing.

He collapses onto one of the plastic seats, hands on his knees, panting and shaking from head to toe. Tries the mental tricks he learned – _I am having a panic attack, but that’s okay. I am safe. I’m not in danger. My feet can touch the ground. I’m not in danger. Nothing’s going to happen_ – tries to stay focused, to get his breathing back under control.

Stares straight ahead until he feels his heartbeat slow down again, keeps breathing in and out. Starts to remember what happened. What he did.

Panic – as quickly as it came – is replaced by embarrassment. And anxiety. (Just fucking great.)

 

_Have I known all along? Have I been in denial? But when? And why? I thought we’d been past this, brain. After what happened with Fred._

_Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit._

 

Jimmy looks down at the pitch, at the staff collecting decoration, cables and other equipment before they pack up for the night. A glorious orange sunset lights up the sky. Something he’d normally appreciate, but he can’t - is still unable to – focus on anything else. Other than the overwhelming, crippling, anxiety-inducing realisation he just had.

He dares himself to think it out loud.

_I’ve fallen for my best friend._

 

Who’s so obviously (blissfully?) unaware of that that it hurts. And there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that Ali is even interested in men. And even worse odds that he reciprocates Jimmy’s feelings.

_I won’t make the same mistake again. Nobody must know about this._

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy sees a figure climb up the stairs. Swanny. Of course.

Jimmy schools his face into a mixture of disdain and amusement – something that comes naturally to him when he’s with Swanny (but not today). Grins as his friend has to stop halfway up, hands on his knees, to catch his breath. “What are you doing out here, Swanny? I was going to join you in a minute.”

Swanny, still gasping, beckons him to come down.

“Like I said, I just needed a bit of fresh air!” Jimmy says with a shrug and a grin as he reaches Swanny. Wants to punch him in the shoulder – playfully, as usual – when he sees Swanny’s expression. “Something the matter?”

 

“I was about to ask you.” Swanny says and looks at him with a raised eyebrow. “Nice performance, down there. Almost believed it was meant for me.” he says and chuckles.

_What?_

Jimmy realises he must have drawn an audible breath. “You lost your mind or something?”

“Come on. You were looking at Ali all the way through the song. As if … If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think there was something going on between the two of you. Especially from the way Ali smiled at you.”

_He smiled at me? What? What? Swanny, you’re too damn perceptive for your own good._

 

Jimmy laughs (hopes it’s convincing). “So? It’s what he does, in case you hadn’t noticed. You sure you didn’t catch too much sun this morning? You sound completely mental.”

Swanny almost looks disappointed. “Come on, Jimmy. I’ve kept your secrets for a while now. Do you honestly feel you couldn’t trust me?”

_No. Because I’m not sure I can trust myself right now._

“Will you let go of it for fuck’s sake?”

“Oh. Okay. But just so you know, in case you decide to talk – you know, that’s what actual human beings do – I’m here.”

Jimmy simply nods, climbs down the stairs, doesn’t wait for Swanny.

 

But any resolution he had – to push everything he just thought about to one side, the retained the bloody Ashes and there’s an actual bloody party going on right now – is forgotten when they (Swanny catches up with him halfway down the corridor) almost collide with someone.

“Ow!” an amused, slightly Australian-sounding voice sounds. Chuckles softly. (Butterflies in Jimmy’s stomach). “There you are. Belly’s about to kidnap Straussy. Thought you didn’t want to miss this, so I told him I was going to look for you.” Ali grabs Jimmy’s forearm and pulls him in the direction of the dressing room. “Hurry!”

 

_Well shit.  So much for keeping my cool around him. But what else can I do?_

Jimmy sighs internally.

_Our friendship is worth far too much for me to risk it._

_I’ll just be glad he’s a part of my life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music to go with this one:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mUnrWo6z9WY (for the first part)  
> and obviously: https://youtu.be/tbNlMtqrYS0


	5. Everything you can do, I can do better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> London, 2012.  
> An ordinary nets session before the series against the West Indies.  
> As ordinary as it gets when two members of the England test team are definitely not flirting with each other.  
> And a captain makes a prediction to remember. In the most surprising way possible.

The training ground is an organised and colourful mess.

Dark blue training shirts and shorts, kit bags – marked with tags in various colours -, bats and balls.

And lots of different sounds. The whirring of the ball machines as they spit out one leather ball after another. The unmistakeable – sometimes very satisfying – snick as willow bats connect with balls, drive them low for a cover shot or high in the air for a six.

And voices. Many voices. In at least 23 (really?) different regional English accents. Some all business-like (Matt, working with Jonny on keeping techniques), some slightly in awe (Jonathan, watching KP demonstrate pull shots) and some (well, one person only and is it really a surprise) amused, laughing. Obviously enjoying himself, Swanny (but when isn’t he?).

 _It was a good idea to put him in the nets with Steve and Stuart_ , Andy thinks and smiles. Pauses on his way to the nets to re-adjust his pads (he really doesn’t need to, but it’s hard to break a habit), puts his sunglasses on and casts an eye over the small group working through their routines.

_I really love life right now._

Not that he isn’t always somewhat aware of that, but it’s worth reminding himself from time to time. Two years and three months since he stepped up as captain. He’s got the measure of the job, knows how to command respect from his team (yes, that includes Swanny, even when he’s a handful), how to get his ideas across with the coaching staff and the media.

Andy loves being captain of this side.

For the glorious days.

Coming back to the dressing room after a hard day of test cricket, knowing he has done his part and sent them on the way to another success. Waiting in a packed ground at the end of a successful series, waiting to receive a medal, to lift a trophy up to the heavens. Soaking up the applause from the crowd, laughing at some of the Barmy Army’s creations. Earning the reward for four, sometimes five days of hard work.

But even more so, he realises, for the ordinary days.

Like today.

A full morning in the nets, working on techniques, tweaking their shots and bowls, looking for that extra bit to retain the edge. Just his side, all 13 of them, and the coaches. The days that nobody will talk about on victory laps to come. But the days that make it count in the end.

Andy loves watching the others while they’re training. Loves being reminded of everyone’s particularities, preferences and characters. Of the reasons why they’re all together.

And if he’s completely honest with himself – he also enjoys the way the others listen to his game plans, do their best to fulfil them. Look up to him, in a way. Especially Ali (who’s really shining these days. The ODI captaincy does him a world of good (as much as he hates being the centre of attention).). _I’ve found my successor. If it was up to me, that is._

“Hi, skip!” Graham gives Andy a wave, interrupts his train of thought. “Press duties over?” “For today at least.” “Wasn’t too annoying, I hope.” “It never is, it’s always the same.” Andy says with a smile and a shrug and grabs his bat. “Ready to put me through my paces?” “Am I ever.”

In between shots, holding poses and adjusting his stance whenever necessary, Andy suddenly becomes aware of an argument going on somewhere to his right. An argument? He strains his ears – and has to stifle a laugh as he hears a very distinct voice. Lancastrian, very obviously having the time of his life, keeping up a near-constant stream of commentary, laughs and sledges. They’re at it again.

Not that the rest of the team isn’t used to Jimmy and Ali in the nets by now. To mutual (sometimes hilarious) sledges (the only time you’ll ever see Ali join in this time-honoured sport), various creative attempts to distract each other and lots of laughs.

But somehow, their “nets game” (as Swanny calls it) has picked up a bit since everyone met up for training nine days ago. And it is definitely not limited to the training ground anymore. This morning, at breakfast, Jimmy swapped Ali’s usual cup of coffee (espresso, black) for a decaffeinated one. In return, Ali (with some help from Swanny, who can never resist messing with people) hid Jimmy’s socks – so well, apparently, that Jimmy was more than 15 minutes late for the team meeting.

Andy doesn’t know what exactly is happening – if it is anything – between his vice-captain and his best bowler. As long as it doesn’t put anyone off their game or affect team morale, he doesn’t mind too much either. He’s got more important things to concern himself with.

(Unless Ali seeks him out for advice, that is.)

Andy shoots another amused look in Ali’s general direction. As usual, the reply is almost instant. A wink and a thumbs-up. _Don’t worry, I can handle him._

Typical Straussy, always looking out for him. Ali smiles to himself and stretches his shoulders, stares down the nets. “You think that’s gonna help?” a teasing reply comes from somewhere in the middle of the ball containers. “And what are you looking for exactly? A ball that contains a frog? Because you won’t get it to bounce at me. Not today. Or ever.” Ali fires back, laughs. Again. As much as he steers clear of any sledging when he’s out in the middle, he does enjoy it. Here. With the right audience.

Jimmy – after much rummaging and some first-rate chuntering – picks up a ball, straightens himself up. Runs a hand through his hair (What was that for? It’s training, not a bloody date). _It might be the only sort of date I’ll ever have with him. Oh, just shut it, brain. We’ve discussed this._

He grits his teeth and marks his run-up. “Just you wait, you cheeky bastard.”

And it’s an absolute beauty. An outswinger, with real pace, for the first time this morning. Takes Ali completely by surprise. He only manages to nick it, knows he would have been out caught at third slip.

“Ha!” comes the triumphant shout from the other end.

“What?” Ali pats himself down, marks his guard. Is – as always – slightly annoyed with himself.

“Told you so.” “Just keep going.” “And what?” Jimmy pretends he didn’t hear him. “I might decide to add a little remedial batting to the end of this session.” Ali says with a smirk.

His words have the desired effect.

The stare Jimmy gives him would scare just about everyone off.  “Fuck off.” he growls.

“Language, James.” Swanny calls from the nets to their right.

Jimmy gives Graeme the finger. Suddenly, an evil (handsome. _What are you thinking, Alastair?_ ) grin lights up his face. “Okay. Fair enough. If you make me bat, then I get to watch you bowl.”

Ali bites down a surprised gasp. “Oh. Oh well. Why not.”

Jimmy rubs his hands together in anticipation and looks at his watch. “Ten more deliveries until I pad up?” “Come at me. If you dare.” (Wow, that was the most ~~s~~.. daring thing he said all morning. If only Ali knew what Jimmy was thinking right now.)

_For fuck’s sake. No! He must not find out._

Jimmy pulls himself together. Is quite glad that the shiver that just ran down his spine was not visible.

They run through a few of his favourite tricks – yorkers, outswingers, a few fuller balls for good measure – and then Jimmy keeps his word (as much as he doesn’t want to), grabs his batting gear from the kitbag and pads up. (There’s something equally comical and cute (cute? seriously, Alastair?) about Jimmy when he’s doing that.)

And Ali enjoys getting his revenge.

“You call that footwork? Did you even listen to a single thing I told you last week?”

“Try and be a bit more specific, Einstein. It’s hard for us ordinary people.”

“You were trying for a pull shot, right? Or one of the most hilarious imitations of a pull shot I’ve seen in a while. And I’ve trained with Monty.” “So?” “Stay where you are. I’ll show you.” Ali says and crosses the crease. Mutters “he’s so unbelievably dense” in Stuart’s direction and gets a guffaw and a double thumbs up as answer.

Jimmy hasn’t moved an inch. Tries not to show how much he’s looking forward to what’s about to happen. “You could just use your words, you know.” he says and cocks an eyebrow at Ali.  “Well that wasn’t much use. And I know you don’t get it if I tell you to copy me. So, give me your legs and…”

Jimmy tunes out.  Closes his eyes. Dimly registers warm hands moving his feet and his calves, an excited voice explaining that it’s best if he puts his weight exactly on here … and then, all of a sudden, the air around him feels  a bit chilly.

He opens his eyes and sees that Ali’s already on his way back to the ball machine. “What was that for?” “Hold that position for a bit! You should feel a slight twinge in your right calf.” “Hard to tell! Everything hurts.” “Stop whingeing.” “Shut it.” Jimmy closes his eyes again, tries to calm the butterflies dancing polka in his belly.

_I’ll still feel his hands for the next hours. As good as it gets, I suppose._

“Alright! Get up and try to do it again with the next delivery. Remember where your legs are supposed to go?”

To Jimmy’s surprise, it works out okay. So well, in fact, that Ian and Swanny, who have taken a break from working on Ian’s defensive play against spin, applaud Jimmy’s shot as the ball hits the nets. “Nice one!” Ian says appreciatively. “You might not be totally hopeless.” Swanny adds.

Jimmy gives them a glare and concentrates again.

“Right, lads, two more deliveries and we’re done for the morning!” Straussy calls a few minutes later. Just as Jimmy missed a completely obvious one that sent the middle stump cartwheeling through the air behind him and had to bite down a “fuck it”.

“So. You go ahead and bowl. You promised.” “Alright.” Ali winks at Jimmy and grabs a new ball. “And please don’t try to be Bob Willis again.” Jimmy adds with a smirk. “What else can I do?” “You could be me … I mean, come on, you’ve seen me often enough. Just do it.”

Ali marks his run-up. Tries to remember (it’s at least a year since he last had a proper go). Runs up, releases the ball …

and Jimmy hits it for six.

And collapses in a fit of giggles. (Something most people would not have thought possible).

“That was…” “I know.” “Sorry.” (Jimmy wipes a tear from his eye). “That was unbelievably shit.”

_And yet so very attractive._

“Give me another try.”

“Oh please.” Jimmy, unlike Ali, has noticed that the entire rest of the team is watching them.

Ali goes for something different this time. Tries to aim for middle stump.

Jimmy hits the ball perfectly, drives it low towards the boundary. “Thanks!” He shouts down the crease. “That was my first boundary in a year.” Hears laughter erupt around him, bows to the audience. “I’m done. What’s on the lunch menu?”

Ali bends down to switch the ball machine off (and to hide the blush he feels creeping up his cheeks). Only looks up when a hand lands squarely on his (very low) back (where does that tingling come from all of a sudden?).  “Nice session today, mate.” Jimmy says with a smile. That smile. You could almost call it their smile, these days. Ali hopes Jimmy doesn’t notice he’s blushing again.

“Thanks. Always fun being in the nets with you.”

They join the rest of the team who are already halfway down the path back to the hotel.

“That was quite something.” Swanny says with a smirk as they catch up with him. “Comedy gold.” “Yep, great stuff. From both of you. Only goes to show why we have specialists in each team.” Ian adds. “You try it yourself, Ronald.” “I don’t need to. I know I can’t bowl.

“Ali?”

Straussy’s I-must-not-laugh-I-am-a-figure-of-authority-after-all – voice.

Ali turns round to his captain whose eyes are sparkling with barely suppressed mirth. “Promise me one thing?” “Go on.”

“Promise me you are never going to bowl in an actual Test match.”

At which point, everyone’s in hysterics again.

 _Couldn’t resist that, could you?_ Ali cocks an eyebrow at Straussy.

It’s a completely absurd idea, of course.

But that’s probably what Ali enjoys the most about being around Jimmy.

Jimmy makes him feel like anything could be possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this one: https://youtu.be/AMJvU4dVukE  
> (for Jimmy at least)


	6. Yet another white rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dubai, October 2012.  
> The test squad meets to prepare for the upcoming tour of India.  
> It's a new era. With a new captain - and a young batsman from Yorkshire makes his debut.

Airport.

Once again, a check-in.

Armed with his kitbag – packed full with seven bats, three sets of pads, his lucky socks, running shoes, fielding shoes, sunglasses – his suitcase, lots of provisions,  his sturdy old backpack (containing the usual books, a small notebook, pens, UNO cards, darts, his headphones and – at Straussy’s special request (he _is_ superstitious) a battered old paperback copy of “Murder in the Orient Express) and a light jacket. Watching his bags disappear into the labyrinth of conveyor belts, knowing they’ll be (hopefully) waiting for him in Dubai, six hours later.

Another away series is about to begin. Routine after almost six years.

But this time, everything is different.

It’s his second trip to India –

and his first without Straussy.

The time has come.

Ali is captain.

A thought that fills him with an equal mixture of pride (he’s never going to admit this to anyone, but he did cry for about ten minutes after Andy Flower called him to confirm) and nerves. Not that he hasn’t been observing Straussy for a while, trying to learn as much as he could. But now it’s his job. His duty to come up with game plans and tactics, to use everyone’s strengths to their advantage, to manage everyone’s attitudes and expectations.

Can he do this?

Ali isn’t entirely sure. But, he tells himself as he makes his way to the lounge – it’s early enough to have at least a coffee and a bite to eat before boarding begins – he’ll learn. He always has in the past six years. And it’s served him well. It’s brought him memorable successes – and brilliant friendships along the way.

_That’s right. I must not forget that. I am not alone._

 

Airport.

Hauling three bags across the hall to the check-in counter, putting his kitbag down on the conveyor belt almost in slow motion (it does contain all six of his bats, his most prized possessions on this planet apart from his pencils and drawing pad!), dropping his suitcase a little less gently after his bag, watching everything disappear after it was marked with one of those ubiquitous black and white airport tags, reading the three letters indicating the destination.

DXB. Dubai.

It’s not Joe’s first international trip. Not his first series away from home.

But nothing has ever felt quite like this.

He needs to say it to himself again. For the sixth time this morning (and countless times during the night, he doesn’t think he slept more than five hours).

_I am a member of the England Test team._

He feels the same wide, beaming smile spread across his face as it did on that unforgettable morning eight days ago when he saw an unfamiliar number on his phone screen. Almost knew beforehand that this was the call he had been waiting for since his first-class debut. Had barely been able to stop himself from yelling “YES” as the friendly ECB guy down the other line had told him that he was being called up for the upcoming tour against India and that the team would meet for a six-day training camp in Dubai a week from now. Joe would receive an e-mail with a lit of kit and equipment to bring later in the day, meanwhile did he have something to write down a few important phone numbers?

When Joe hung up, he was shaking from head to toe, knowing – feeling – he was smiling so widely his face was about to split any second. The “FUCK YES!” he yelled immediately afterwards may have been heard by the neighbours on the other side of the road. Potentially.

He immediately called Jonny. And then, after Jonny promised to send him a list containing everything useful about the other guys in the team (the _TEST_ team), proceeded to ring his mum. Who knew something was up from the moment she heard his excited “Morning, mum, there’s news.” It was when she said “I’m so proud of you, Joey” that it had finally hit him. It was all he could do not to cry.

And now his adventure – the biggest adventure he’s had in his cricketing career so far – is really about to begin. He’s in Heathrow airport, plane tickets to Dubai safely stored in his backpack along with way too many books (is he really going to be able to read anything?), a set of darts he brought just in case and his trusted old drawing pad and pencils. Somehow, Joe reckons, he’ll be able to find plenty of motives.

He checks his watch – enough time for a coffee – and heads to the lounge on the first floor (one of Jonny’s many useful tips).

 

The room is nearly deserted when Joe enters. Stops for a while, amazed by the luxurious black and white furniture and the sheer amount of food on offer on the buffet to his right. Slightly overwhelmed, he grabs a small porcelain cup – this looks at least like it could be proper porcelain – and pours himself a coffee.

Looks for an armchair to sit – no, lounge – in when he spots a lone figure a few seats across. Tall, with a mop of black hair, face buried behind the _Telegraph_ , but with those rounded shoulders that, to the trained eye, immediately give away a batsman. Not any batsman.

_Oh. That’s the captain. I mean, our captain._

Joe feels himself blush. Of all the people he thought (hoped) he could run into on the way to Dubai, it has to be him. Alastair Cook. ( _Yes, I’m really going to play in the same team – the TEST team – as one of my absolute idols.)_

Should he say hi now? Or does that come across as too eager? What…? Joe takes a sip of his coffee and looks at the notebook he’s been keeping for the past few days. Containing everything that Jonny has told him, a private list of things he means to get around to on his first ever tour and a few scribbles. Including a full list of all his new teammates, with names and photos. Maybe seven hours on the plane isn’t going to be long enough to memorise everything. But it’s worth giving him it a try.

 

Ali looks around the room. This early in the morning, the lounge is almost completely empty save for a few business types in suits, a family of five – and a young man with blonde hair, wearing a tracksuit.  A batsman, by the looks of it. _Takes one to know one, I guess. Wait a second. Is that our new boy? Joe…. what’s his name again (seriously, Alastair, you need to remember these things now)._  

He grabs his phone, wants to look for the e-mail Andy Flower sent him on Monday when he realises the young man has been watching him. Seems to be quite nervous, by the looks of it. _Just like I was, six years ago, when Fred introduced me to everyone in Nagpur. Funny how history repeats itself. It’s like I’m watching myself right now. And he’s the same age I was then. Joe… Joe Root, yes. That’s his name._

Despite himself (he really leaves that part up to Swanny and Stuart whenever he can), Ali waves. And gets a shy grin in return. “Join me?” “Of course.” Joe hauls his backpack across the room, pauses and looks at him. “Hi. I’m … well, I think you know that. Sorry. I talk too much when I’m excited.” “Not a problem. I felt exactly the same six years ago. Anyway, Alastair Cook. But please call me Cooky. Everyone does.” Ali points at the armchair opposite him, indicating it’s okay for Joe to sit down. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a while.” Joe shakes Ali’s hand, grins and draws up the chair. “Likewise. Heard a lot about you. So… looking forward to your first ever tour?” Ali says and leans forward in his armchair.

“Absolutely. I still can’t believe they think I’m good enough.” “You are. They know what they’re doing. And don’t worry, I don’t know what you heard about us, but you’ll fit right in with the other lads. Just make sure you don’t eat anything Graeme Swann – I mean, Swanny – hands you for the first couple of days. He is a bit of a prankster.” “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.” Joe almost wants to write it down in his notebook straight away but stops himself. Doesn’t want the captain to think he’s weird or anything.

They talk briefly about the other members of the team – “curious to see how Stuart gets on, he really doesn’t like Indian conditions – you’ll see what I mean, the wickets are absolutely different from anywhere else” – and move on to a lengthy discussion of the current County championship (“I’m not exactly up to date, once you really get going in international cricket you sort of lose track.”).

An interesting and quite respectful chat only punctuated by – strangely comfortable – mutual silences. Silences which they both use to sneak furtive glances across the table, get a measure of the other man.

 _He’s actually very much an introvert. I wonder how he handles that now he’s captain,_ Joe thinks as he finishes his coffee and looks at his watch. “I’m getting a muffin, you want one too? We’ve still got about twenty minutes before we need to go to the gates…. I mean, at least from what I remember. I don’t want to order you around.” he finishes with a slightly embarrassed chuckle.

 _Impossible not to like this lad. The perfect mixture of funny – maybe slightly cheeky (oh I need to keep him away from Belly and Swanny for the first couple of days at least or I’ll have a handful on my hands) – and shy. He’ll fit right in._ “Thanks for reminding me,” Ali says with a smile that’s meant to say “don’t worry, I didn’t take this the wrong way.” “I’ll just grab a banana. Or .. thank you,” he says to the waitress who deposits two small glass bowls filled with salted nuts on the table, “a few handfuls of these.”

Joe examines the bowl and gives a slightly disgusted “ew”.

“What’s wrong?”

“Do they always have to include pistachios in these nuts mixes?”

A surprised chuckle. “You don’t say? You don’t like pistachios either?”

“Never have. They taste of cardboard.” “Couldn’t agree more. But how do we get rid of them?”

“Leave that to me, skip – I mean, Cooky.” Joe says, takes his saucer and shovels the pistachios out of the bowl. “A tried and tested method.” “Thanks.” Ali laughs. “I’ll just fetch my muffin. Be right back.”

(Neither of them realise it just yet, but that was the beginning of one of their long-standing insider jokes.)

 

They continue to complain about pistachios – and other disgusting food – amid many laughs, share the nuts and exactly half of the muffin. Begin to relax around each other, to enjoy each other’s company.

 _Just the start I needed,_ Ali thinks as he watches Joe make himself comfortable on the plane half an hour later. _Which is weird. I usually don’t hit it off with people straight away. Unless they’re Jimmy._

 _Jimmy._ Funny how even a thought of his best friend makes him smile, these days. _I can’t wait to see him again. The break between tours can really drag on._

 

Seven hours and a bit of anxious waiting at the airport until they had all of their luggage later, the taxi pulls up to a luxurious hotel on the outskirts of Dubai, in the middle of the desert. “Yes, that’s really where we’re staying.” Ali grins at Joe who’s been staring – open-mouthed – out of the window for the last half an hour. “I guess I made it. Almost. I mean I won’t really make it until I actually make my debut, not that I’m trying to convince you or anything but…” Joe feels himself getting flustered again. “I’ll keep an eye on you.  Do well in training and the warm-ups and you just might ( _maybe in Nagpur? if this really is history repeating itself?)._ ” Ali smiles as they step out of the car.

And the relative piece and quiet they’ve been enjoying for the last nine hours is over without warning.

“Rooty lad! Welcome to the big club!” An excited shout from the entrance, definitely a Yorkshire accent. “Jonny!” Joe drops his backpack and runs off to hug the young ginger wicket keeper waiting at the top of the stairs. “Had a good flight?” “Absolutely.”

And then Joe remembers again that he did not come alone. Slightly flushed, he runs back down again to help Alastair with his luggage. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, it’s just me and Jonny have been playing with each other for ages and I couldn’t wait to see him again and…” “No problem.” Ali hands Joe his trolley. “Let’s go meet the others.”

At the sight of the three new arrivals, the small group in tracksuits and shorts that has been lounging in the hotel lobby immediately gets to its feet. And a lanky young man – with a slighty mischievous grin – wanders over to Ali, pauses 20 metres ahead of him and curtsies. “Oh Captain, my captain.” he says in a deferent voice.

“And how have you been, Swanny?” Ali tries to hide his grin. “Great. Can’t wait to get stuck in again, the break has been too long. By the way, we bowlers are holding an in-team competition on this tour.” “Go ahead?” “Whoever manages to get Sachin Tendulkar out the most gets crowned King of the Test team.” Swanny explains and draws himself up to his full height. “You’re unbelievable.” Ali laughs. 

He wanders around, shakes hands with everyone, politely inquires about flights and families and holidays. Feels himself relax, as much as he can. _I’m in charge now. They’re my team._ A thought that now – all of a sudden – fills Ali with immense pride. _I was meant to do this._

Jimmy, who had his nose buried in another book and hardly paid attention to Swanny’s royal welcome, looks up as he hears Ali’s voice behind him, chatting with Stuart about golf. Really hopes that nobody noticed how his eyes must have lit up at the familiar public school-mixed-with-Chelmsford-pavilion – tones that he’s been excited to hear again for the first time in three months. Because he knows he must be beaming.  ( _I need to stop acting like a bloody teenage girl when I see him or I’ll give myself away.)_

A hand lands on his shoulder and Jimmy turns around sharply. “Erm … hi. Captain.” “Missed you.” Ali holds Jimmy’s gaze for a while – a very long while. Too long. Or long enough for Jimmy to completely forget what he was about to say. “Come here.” Ali says fondly, pulls Jimmy to his feet and hugs him.

_Must think of something else must act normal don’t want him to notice that my heart’s pounding say something stupid, Jimmy, come on_

“Aren’t you forgetting someone? Who’s that boy over there with JB?” Jimmy punches Ali’s arm.

“Oh shit, sorry, thanks. What would I do if I didn’t have you.” Ali hurries back across the lobby to Joe. “Everyone, say hi to Joe Root. It’s his first tour with the Test side – as you all know – so please, and that’s meant for Jimmy, Swanny, Ian and Matty, _be nice._ ” _Okay, I sounded completely different just now. Is that what Straussy meant when he said I needed to find my captain voice? I’ll give it another go._

“I’ll head upstairs to my room. Dinner’s at 7:30 and our first meeting tomorrow is at 8 am sharp. So – no, Stuart, I’m not looking at you for any _specific reason_ -“ another guffaw – “do try to be on time, lads. If anyone needs something, you can always knock at my door. I’m in 203.” he says and smiles at everyone in turn. “It’s a new beginning for all of us. And I want us to make the most of it.”

 

While he waits for the lift, Ali looks back at the rest of the team. His team. Finds – to his slight relief – that Joe’s already in the middle of what looks like an animated discussion with Matty and Stuart. About football, no doubt. That’s always a good icebreaker. _Welcome to the Test squad. We might be weird, but who isn’t?_ Ali thinks and smiles to himself.

After dinner and a few drinks, Jonathan, Samit, Joe and Jonny borrow table tennis bats and balls from reception, start an impromptu game at the quite battered table on the far end of the lobby. Matty, Ian and KP make themselves comfortable on a sofa in the hotel bar, watch a bit of this weekend’s Premier league games.

Ali suddenly feels very tired. Not that he doesn’t like being around the other lads ( _his team_ ), but he’s reached his limit of “people” for today. Also, with the first training session only nine hours away, suddenly the nerves kick back in in full force.

“I’ll call it a night. Sleep well, everyone!”

“And you, skip!” (yes, they mean me now).

 

Just as Ali’s finished brushing his teeth, someone knocks at his door. “This had better be urgent, lads, I’m really tired.” “It’s me.”  ( _Of course._ )

Ali opens the door and it reveals a slightly sheepish-looking Jimmy. In a T-shirt and shorts. “What’s up?” Ali asks as he lets his friend into the room. “Thought … you could do with some company? Tomorrow’s the start of a new era. You need to get a proper night’s sleep.” Jimmy scratches his ear, as he’s always doing when he’s nervous.

_Of course, you noticed. You always do. Thank you._

“Sure.” Ali pushes back the blanket.

Jimmy yawns and curls up under the covers.  “That Joe lad looks like a handful.” “Decent batsman, though. And quite nice. Had a good chat on the way here.” “You and small talk?” Jimmy cocks an eyebrow. “Don’t ask me how it happened, I don’t know either.” Ali laughs and turns to look at Jimmy.

“Thank you.”

“No need. I know you.” Jimmy switches the bedside lights off. “Sleep well.”

He doesn’t know how – or why – but somehow instinctively stretches out his right hand on the mattress until he can reach Ali. ( _At least he doesn’t see what my face looks like right now.)_ Ali recognises the gesture, intertwines his fingers with Jimmy’s ( _why does that comfort me more than anything?)_ , gives his friend’s hand a short squeeze. “You too. I’m always here, you know that.”

 

When he’s reminiscing about that first training session a couple of years later, Joe can’t quite say what exactly they were doing all day.

But he always – vividly - remembers the excitement, the emotions, the fun and the pride he felt on that October morning as he joined the others on their way down to the nets (and some training facilities they were. The most luxurious Joe had ever seen).

Remembers the laughs in the morning as the bowlers took him under their collective wings, made him show them his technique, his short balls and his yorkers – not without a copious amount of good-natured sledging – and tried to get him involved in their game of the tour (he went along with it, though it was really a bit of a stretch – he could not for the life of him imagine himself actually taking THE Sachin Tendulkar’s wicket).

And even more so, Joe remembers the afternoon. The first afternoon (of many, many to follow) that he spent in the nets with ~~Alastair~~ Cooky. An unbelievably challenging session that introduced him to ways of thinking about batting that he never even considered before. But fun. A lot of fun. And a lot of (did he really mean that?) praise coming his way, not only from his new captain ( _I wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling awkward in his company)_ but also from the rest of the batsmen who seemed to spend quite some time watching him. Sizing him up, wondering where he’s going to fit into their squad. Which he weirdly didn’t mind at all.

 _All in all_ , Joe thinks as he safely stores away his bats and gloves in his kit bag at the end of the day, _I’m quite tired but wow. It was everything I expected and more. International cricket’s an entirely new game. I’ll need to keep on my toes almost constantly. If I want to keep up with these lads. Which I SO do._

Looks up as he realises that someone has been watching him for a while.

His captain. _I mean, Cooky._

“Any plans for the evening?” “None so far. I mean, the Yorkshire lads and I were talking about a few rounds of UNO – in case you want to join in. But that’s after dinner.” Joe offers.

“I’ll consider it, thanks. Speaking of dinner, “(and Ali wonders where he suddenly got the idea from), “I’d quite like the two of us to have dinner tonight. Because … well, your first time in the Test squad is a milestone. Something you need to remember. So that’s why. And I’m paying. Also, I’d really like to hear more about that film you told me about in the taxi on Saturday.” Ali adds with another smile (they seem to come quite easily in Joe’s company).

“Wow, thanks, I’m honoured.” Joe’s smile is very much on the bashful side now.

“It’s my first tour as captain and your first tour overall. That’s a special occasion.”

“So … let’s meet at 7. Lobby?” “Alright. See you then.” “Can’t wait!” Joe adds before he can stop himself. “Me neither.” Ali replies.

 _So far, so good,_ Ali ponders in the shower. _I might actually get the hang of this at some point._

_And who knows. I might just have made myself a new friend._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/wTWOAJJ9s1g  
> I could not think of a better song than this one.


	7. The way you look tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nagpur, 2012.  
> A Test debut, a series is won and Jimmy makes a mistake with unexpected benefits.

“Good session, everyone! Make sure you get enough rest in the afternoon. Massive first day, tomorrow.” Ali is met with a lot of determined looks, smiles and thumbs-up.

While he helps the lads pack up kitbags and training equipment and everyone gradually makes their way back to the team hotel in Nagpur – among some excited chatting (they’re really this close to winning an actual series in India!) – he suddenly has an idea. _So, this is history repeating itself. In a way. I can’t wait to see how he’s going to react,_ Ali thinks and smiles to himself. _He’s earned it._

He finds Joe on the far end of the training ground where he’s picking up the remaining balls with Stuart and – quite obviously – telling another one of those funny stories of his. “What’s up, captain?” (How does he always immediately notice when I’m looking for him?) Joe asks cheerily.

“Need to talk to you for a second.” Ali says and can’t help but smile (This really is the most fun part of his new job. Straussy was right.). “I’m listening?” Joe – once again – is unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. _Is this what I think it is?_

Ali crosses the nets until he’s reached Joe and Stuart. Answers Jimmy’s “so this is THE talk, I guess?” look with a quick smile and a nod. Runs through his head how he’s going to say it. Because Joe will want to remember.

“So?” Joe looks Ali up and down, his bright blue eyes shining.

“Do you still have your neon vest?”

“Yep.”

“Once we’re back at the hotel, hand it over to David please. You won’t need it tomorrow.”

“Wait a second.” Realisation dawns on Joe’s face – and Stuart, who’s been listening, starts to grin at the same time. “You’re not telling me…” “Yes. It’s time, Joe. You’re going to get your first cap.” _Why did I just sound this … different? Like I’m really happy for him?_

No time for Ali to second-guess his motives, though. Because he’s barely finished speaking before he’s being pulled into what can only be described as a bear hug. “Wow. Thanks.” Joe says quietly. Before remembering where he is and what he just did. His ears turn a quite magnificent shade of pink. “Sorry. That was completely out of order.” Joe lets go of Ali, looks at the ground with a sheepish grin.

“No, don’t worry.” Ali replies affectionately. “I was just as excited as you. And you’ve earned it. You’ll do great.” “Congrats, Rooty!” Stuart pats Joe on the back and thankfully – spares Ali any further questions. “You won’t forget tomorrow. And we’re all gonna make sure you’ll have a memorable debut!”

 

For Joe, the rest of the day passes by in a blur. E-mails to his parents, his brother Billy and any of his friends he can think of to “make sure you don’t miss A MINUTE of the 4th test because it’s finally happening”. A long talk with Kevin, Jonathan and Matt after dinner, going through some last-minute tips for his first test innings. A few rounds of table tennis with Stuart – and then, eventually, a long and sleepless, slightly anxious but mostly absolutely excited, night. During which he even read some pages of that old Agatha Christie novel his dad had lent to him before he left, in the – vain – hope that it would make him tired enough.

He feels as if he’s barely slept when their bus comes to a halt in front of the Vidarbha Cricket Association Stadium. As Joe helps the others carry everything inside, and then receives the cap – THE cap – after a very nice speech (that for some reason made him want to disappear right into the ground), suddenly the nerves kick in with a vengeance. And he feels slightly nauseous.

_Can I really do it at this level? We need at least a draw to win the series. Shouldn’t someone more experienced … no, that’s not helping at all. I wanted this. Didn’t I? Yes. But I need a few minutes to myself. I really am sort of panicking, for fuck’s sake._

Ali has just finished discussing fielding setups with Jimmy and Swanny. “So, I guess we are all clear?” “Yes, sir, captain, sir.” Swanny salutes and grins. “Let’s finish the job.” “You – I mean – don’t worry, we’ll be fine.” Jimmy adds with a slightly (strangely) shy grin. They high-five.

“We’ll start our warm-up in five minutes. I’ve got something to do.” Ali leaves his friends to their usually routine – tossing balls around the room and shit-talking (which has picked up for a reason vaguely related to Stuart) – and looks for Joe.

Finds his young teammate in a corner, avoiding everyone’s eyes, playing with an armband on his left wrist. Joe looks up as Ali approaches, his usually perpetually cheerful face now set, tense and more than a bit nervous.

“You okay?” Ali asks quietly.

“Not so much. Don’t worry. Probably just stage-fright.” Joe admits awkwardly.

Ali holds a hand out, pulls Joe to his feet and into a hug. Feels a rapid heartbeat against his chest, holds Joe tight, squeezes his right shoulder. “Calm down. You’ve earned your place in this team. You’re great. And you’re going to go out to the middle and bat well, show everyone why you belong to us. And we’re with you. I’m with you. Every step of the way.” Ali says softly and feels Joe relax.

_That’s something I could have done with, six years ago._

“Thanks.” Joe smiles at him. “And you’ll do great as well.”

(The first time of many.)

 

On some days, there are no better jobs in the world than being captain of the England test team. Something Straussy told Ali almost two years ago when they were preparing for the Boxing Day Ashes test in Melbourne.

And something that Ali finally understands, now, three days later, as he leads a triumphant, ecstatic horde back into the dressing room after an extended victory lap around the ground, the trophy still more or less held aloft.

There are no better feelings than this.

Having led your team to a series win, in India of all places. Having seen all your plans, your tactical ideas, come to fruit, a young teammate make an excellent 73 on debut, showing glimpses of an exciting future ahead. Knowing that you couldn’t have done anything better. That you got everything absolutely right. Spot-on. That your friend and former captain’s belief in you was right after all.

_I’m exactly where I want to be right now,_ Ali thinks, carefully puts the trophy up on a bench and faces his team, grinning with relief from one ear to the other. “Lads, that was magnificent. A series to remember.” he tells them, is met with applause, cheers and a (weirdly) shy smile from Jimmy.

_What’s happening with you, these days?_ Ali wonders. Jimmy has been acting strangely awkward for a while, true. But there’s a time and a place to figure this out. Not today. Besides, he’ll find out one way or another. Jimmy can not keep secrets around Ali. They’ve been friends for far too long.

“Get changed, we meet in the dining room in an hour. I’ve booked us a private dinner. It’s half on me and half on the coaches.” Some more laughter and applause. “And then, you’re free for the rest of the evening. Just make sure you don’t destroy anything!” Ali has to bite back a laugh as he spots Swanny’s expression. Almost disappointed. As usual. As long as he isn’t up to anything too dangerous or embarrassing, Ali really doesn’t want to know what’s going through his friend’s head. _If you want to have an evening to remember, let Swanny be a part of it._

 

The pleasant, although slightly intense smell of a tandoori grill greets everyone as they wander into the hotel’s private dining area. A large table, set for 15, is already laid out in the room, decorated with flowers, candles and (a nice touch) red and white paper napkins. “Nice surprise, skip,” Matt nods approvingly as he settles in a chair opposite Ali and reads through the menu. “Thought we deserved something to remember tonight.” Ali explains, stretches his legs. “It’s been a fantastic few weeks.” “For you, especially. What a dream start to your captaincy.  May there be many more!” “Thanks.” They clink glasses.

Dishes are ordered, naan is shared, toasts are made. They chew the fat, laugh, discuss their personal highlights. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone smile this widely on their debut, Joe.” Kevin says pats him on the back. “Couldn’t help myself, could I?” Joe grins at his neighbour. “I’ve been dreaming about this for such a long time!” “And 73 is some score for your first Test!” Ian adds. “You’ll see, you’ll get your first century in no time.”

“Welcome again to the Test side, Joe.” Matt says and everyone raises their glass to him.

Joe meets Ali’s eyes and smiles.

And Ali smiles back (really, it feels natural to do this around him).

_I’ve never seen someone so relaxed during their first test match,_ Ali thinks. _He looks like he’s made for international cricket._

(A sentence he’ll come back to quite frequently in the following years. And eventually realise just how right he was.)

A jazz band starts to play at the same time as dinner is served. “Enjoy your meal, everyone!” Ali says.

 

Jimmy, who’s sitting at the far end of the table next to Monty and Stuart – as usual – pauses between bites of his really quite hot chicken tikka masala, glances around the room, takes in the scene.

Once again, he’s glad that nobody can read his thoughts.

_It’s getting harder and harder to keep my poker face on around him. Especially today. The way his eyes have been shining non-stop since the declaration, the way he looked at me before they handed him the trophy – it’s like the entire day has been a non-stop reminder of my feelings for him. Of just how attractive he is when he’s captaining. Or in general. Oh, for fuck’s sake, this is hard. Why does this keep happening to me. Pull yourself together, Jimmy._

He dimly registers the song the band has just launched into. “The Way You Look Tonight”, a classic by Frank Sinatra. The exact song that speaks Jimmy’s mind – and the last thing he wants to hear right now.

Nevertheless, try as he might, he can’t help but get caught up in the lyrics, the tune – again. And sneak a glance over at Ali, who’s laughing at something Joe just told him.

Ali meets Jimmy’s eyes and gives him a quizzical grin.

_Do NOT give yourself away, James,_ Jimmy tells himself and shrugs.

And realises Stuart has been watching him. “What’s going on?” Jimmy asks, tries to sound normal, casual. “Want some more of my naan?” “No thanks, I’m quite full. You done with yours?” Stuart replies in a friendly way, but there’s a hint of curiosity behind it. Jimmy nods. “And now?” Somehow, he feels himself tense up.

“I’m just going to wash my hands, but there’s something I want to talk to you about. Come with me.” Stuart says and gets up.

Despite himself, Jimmy follows him. “We’ll be right back.” he says in Ali’s general direction. Tries to keep his rising panic under control. What is going on? He’s known Stuart long enough to realise that this is not going to be about an elaborate prank he wants to play on someone. This looks and feels different. _Please tell me he doesn’t…._ Jimmy can’t think clearly anymore.

Stuart does not head in the direction of the men’s rooms but turns a corner, keeps walking until they’ve reached the hotel gardens. He sits down on a short marble bench and makes room for Jimmy next to him.

“Will you please tell me what you want?” Jimmy can’t keep a slight irritation out of his voice. “It’s not like you to play coy. Unless this is some set-up and Swanny’s behind it and …” But then Jimmy notices Stuart’s look. Not cheeky, or mischievous – but shy. And curious. And … supportive? Why?

“Jimmy? Don’t take this the wrong way please. And you really don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” Stuart says quietly and bites his lower lip. Avoids Jimmy’s eyes.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ Jimmy’s heart has started to race.

“Are you … is there something going on between Ali and you?” _Fuck._

If there was even a hint of anxiety in Stuart’s question, Jimmy failed to notice it. Can’t focus on anything besides his knees which have begun to tremble and the rapid thumping of his pulse in his ears.

“Sorry, I … I don’t know why I said that. It’s just … I caught you watching him. Before. When they played that Sinatra song. And … I recognised that look. You … but really, you don’t have to answer.” Stuart’s voice is slightly hoarse.

Jimmy almost wants to snap at him. Is struggling to think well. The moment he admits to it out loud ..., doesn’t that make it real? After nearly two years of pining which had almost convinced him that he could handle this ridiculous, completely inappropriate, annoying and yet so undeniable crush on his best friend on his own? That he could live with his feelings never being reciprocated, just enjoy Ali’s company and be glad he’s his friend and gets to spend so much time with him (even more so on this tour, they’ve started to spend entire nights together now)?

_But_ , another voice at the back of his mind adds, _Stuart means well_. _And do you really want to keep a lid on your feelings all the time? Again? You know what happened with Fred in the West Indies. Wouldn’t it be easier if you had someone you could talk to? And Stuart might be a bit of an oaf, sometimes, but he means well. He’s actually quite considerate. And you could do with someone on your side. Other than Swanny. Do you trust Stuart enough?_

Jimmy turns around, looks Stuart directly in the eyes.   _Yes, I do. I do trust you._

Nevertheless, it still takes him three tries and a couple of deep breaths before he slowly, almost in slow-motion, nods. And feels some of the tension leave his body as soon as he’s done so.

Stuart bites back a gasp. “And since when?”

“There isn’t anything, really. Yet. And I don’t think there’s ever going to be anything. Because he doesn’t think of me like that. It’s just … I’ve known for at least two years. Since Melbourne. Our party at the MCG. When I sang and … am I making any sense?”

“Not quite. But keep talking.” Stuart briefly squeezes Jimmy’s hand. “And don’t be afraid. I won’t tell anyone. Least of all him.” he adds with a smile.

“Thank you.” Jimmy replies softly. And despite all his initial misgivings, lets go of everything that’s been weighing on him for the past two years. Feels himself relax, an intense gratitude wash over him.

Once he’s finished, Stuart is silent for a while.

“Wow. Ouch. Didn’t think it was this serious.” he says eventually. Jimmy sighs. “It is. Unfortunately.” “Thanks for trusting me. I’ll keep your secret.” Stuart hugs Jimmy briefly. “From now on, remember – you can always come to me when you need to talk about it. Before you do something you might regret.”

They get up, wander back to the dining room. Pause at the door. “Thanks. That helped a lot.” Jimmy puts an arm around Stuart’s shoulders. “Any time for a friend like you.” Stuart replies.

_Perhaps that’s what I needed all along. I am not alone._

_And now, there's a party waiting for me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Stuart didn't play in that Test. Needed him in Nagpur for story purposes though.  
> Also: obvious song for this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9ZGKALMMuc


	8. The urn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Oval, August 2013.
> 
> Winning the Ashes is one thing.   
> But, as Ali’s discovering, it’s something completely different to win the Ashes when you are captain.
> 
> Advance warning: features A LOT OF UST.

“One hand.”

“No. Two.”

“That looks stupid. The urn’s only 11 cm high. And it isn’t that heavy.”

“It isn’t?”

“Trust me, Joe. It isn’t.”

Ali’s head is spinning. He’s hardly paying attention to the discussion behind him, blinking rapidly, trying to keep the tears that have been forcing their way out for the past hour in check. Not wanting to look anyone in the eye right now. And definitely not able to speak.

It’s one thing to win the Ashes. To be handed that famous little urn amidst cheers, chants and fireworks. To know that you’ve just taken part in something that’s - more or less – the equivalent of the Test Cricket World Cup. At least for someone raised in Australia or England.

But, as Ali’s discovering, it’s something completely different to win the Ashes when you are captain. It’s everything he dreamed of (even though he’d never admit this to anyone) for a while and the first thing he thought of when Straussy retired. The most brilliant of victories. Especially at home.

And – it’s also daunting.

Because if there’s one thing you can’t afford yourself as captain, even if you’ve just won the Ashes, it’s showing too much of your emotions. At least in public. You represent your side, your board, you can’t allow yourself to look unprofessional.

Even though you’ve been on the verge of tears for more than an hour.

_Pokerface, Ali. It’s only 15 minutes._

Something Straussy was particularly good at. If it’s all becoming too much, try to get through it 15 minutes at a time.   _I can manage. I think. Must remember not to look at Jimmy._

A hand lands squarely between Ali’s shoulders, makes him cough with the sudden – unexpected force of the gesture.

He turns around sharply. “Ow! Are you ment…? I mean, yes, Swanny, what’s going on?”

“Decided yet?” Swanny looks him up and down with raised eyebrows and grins. “What are you on about?” Ali is glad his voice sounded steadier than he feels.

“The most important question for an Ashes-winning captain.” Swanny replies in that “oh don’t be so dense, Cooky lad” – tone of voice he sometimes gets. Which is usually followed by something funny. “Are you going to lift the urn with one hand or two hands?” Swanny asks, his eyes sparkling.

“That’s what you’ve been arguing about?” Ali bites back a laugh. Feels the lump in his throat slide down a bit. _They’re a handful, my lads. But I wouldn’t have them any other way._

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Stuart and Swanny exchanging an exaggerated exasperated eye-roll and a sigh. _Quite the actor, Stuart. That was almost convincing._ “Welcome back on Planet Earth, skip.” Matt says with a grin. “I’d go for one hand, by the way.”

Whatever Ali wants to reply is being cut off by Andy Flower. “Lads, line up, they’re about to start!”

_They do have a point,_ Ali thinks and smiles at Joe behind him. Who’s – it’s his first ever Ashes win – nearly as emotional as Ali, keeps biting his lower lip and playing with something he’s holding in his right hand. “You won’t forget this.” Ali tells Joe quietly, puts one hand on Joe’s shoulder and squeezes it briefly.

Is met with one of the most bashful smiles he’s seen in a while. “You won’t either, I guess?”

Ali leads his team out into a bright late-afternoon sunshine, amidst raucous applause and standing ovations. On occasions like this, at least that’s what Straussy always used to say, the lines between the England team and their supporters are more than a little bit blurred. Because the joy, the pride, the delight, in an Ashes win, are universal.

They climb the podium, are handed the winners’ medals (Swanny even manages to make KP laugh as he briefly uses it as a headband), line up in a circle around the white stand. With the urn.

_The urn._

Ali takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Feels the tears stinging behind his eyelids.

_They won’t see it. There’s fireworks as well._

“The urn, the Ashes are yours – Alastair Cook and England, Ashes Winners 2013!” an equally delighted Michael Atherton shouts into the microphone and hands Ali the urn. The urn.

_I forgot how small it is._

And Ali takes a second to take it all in. Hears someone behind him yelling to “get the fuck on with it!” _(never change, Jimmy)_ , feels an arm slide around his shoulders.

_This is really happening. I am an Ashes- winning captain._ (And part of Ali wonders what Straussy is thinking right now. If he’s proud.)

_At my command, unleash heaven._

He takes another deep breath and lifts the urn with both hands.

Pandemonium.

Confetti, fireworks, champagne. Hugs, jumping, yelling, chants and some good-natured wrestling as everyone wants to get a hand on the urn, lift it for themselves.

Ali watches the others, sees his own pride, his own emotions, reflected back at him. Has never liked them more than in this moment. _They’re my team. My mates. My family. Yes, that includes you, Kev._

Joe, now – unashamedly – in tears – flings his arms around Ali, hugs him tight. “I wish this day would never end!” “It won’t!” Matty yells behind him. “There’s no way we’ll get out of here before midnight!”

They slowly make their way down the podium, pose for the traditional team photo, wander around the ground with flags of St. George draped around their necks, take their sweet time with everything.

Jimmy catches up with Ali after he’s finished an interview with Sky. “Ashes-winning captain, mate.” he says, smiling from one ear to the other. “Sunk in yet?”

And Ali knows he’s asking out of courtesy. Doesn’t want his best friend to feel embarrassed if he doesn’t want to talk about it. But there’s no way Jimmy hasn’t seen how shiny Ali’s eyes are, hasn’t noticed the small traces of tears on his cheeks.

_You always see right through me._

They embrace, share their joy, enjoy being so close to each other.  So, maybe this was one of their longer hugs, but who cares. They just won the Ashes. “And now?” Ali grins at Jimmy.

“Swanny said he’ll think of something.” Jimmy replies, playfully punches Ali’s arm (and really hopes he can pass the colour that he knows has risen on his cheeks off as “it’s bloody hot” (which it isn’t, but any excuse will do). “Should I get scared?” Ali chuckles.

“Not too much. I mean, he’s Swanny, but I’ll keep an eye on him.” Jimmy tells Ali and wanders over to Stuart. Who’s just shot him a look that Jimmy could only understand as “do I need to step in?” and shouted, “Fast bowlers’ union selfie, Jim!” “Thanks,” Jimmy mouths at Stuart and leans on Steve’s right shoulder. “Cheese!”

Selfies done and chants joined in with, they saunter back to the dressing room. Time for everyone’s favourite part of the evening. The private part. Their unofficial party.

There’s a brief panic as, for about three minutes, nobody quite recalls just who took the keys with them when they left for the ceremony. Eventually, Swanny ( _as usual)_ , holding his sides from laughing, pulls the keys out of his socks, unlocks the door. They flop back in their spots, or on the floor.

Expectant eyes turn to face their captain. Ali feels himself flush.

“Lads …”  The lump in his throat is back. To distract himself, he looks at everyone in turn. Is met with a lot of proud smiles. Supportive smiles. Smiles that tell him “glad to have you, mate.”

Ali tries to pull himself together.

“Thank you.” That’s as much as he’s able to, right now.

Applause and hugs. From everyone.

“Cheers!” Jonathan passes a champagne bottle around the room and everyone takes a swig. “And remember, there’s really only one rule tonight-““What happens tonight, does NOT, under any circumstances, I don’t care how funny it is, leave this dressing room!” Swanny finishes the sentence to general cheers and laughter.

Stuart and Swanny switch on the laptop and speakers, turn up the volume. “We added some new songs yesterday,” Stuart explains. “Feel free to skip them if you want. I know my taste in music is a bit different.” “That’s putting it nicely, you weird person.” Jimmy laughs and throws a sock at Stuart.

Stuart catches it with one hand behind his back, throws it as hard as he can at Swanny and only misses Swanny’s chin by an inch. A game ensues that soon involves everyone in the room – and almost has Chris fall of the bench after he tried a particular difficult catch.

“When do we ask the Aussies over?” Ian asks no-one in particular. “Give it some time. They just sounded like they were still in the middle of a nasty argument.” Kevin, who’s just come back in after having called his parents and friends in South Africa, replies.

Sympathetic grins and Swanny rubs his hands in glee. “And there’s something we should get out of the way first!” “Oh definitely!” Ian replies and laughs. “No escaping us, skip!”

_Oh god, here we go._ Ali sighs internally but can’t hide a grin. Why not. It’s part of the job. And Swanny in particular has been looking forward to this for almost two years. Also, a part of Ali is genuinely curious what they’ve come up with.

Before he can even say or think anything, he realises his feet have left the ground. The whooping and laughing around him – and the size of the hands holding both of his calves – tell Ali that he’s being carried on Ian’s shoulders, out of the room and towards the showers.

_Just my luck. Well, it was my stupid idea in Melbourne._ He laughs at himself. And braces himself for the inevitable temperature shock.

“Looking far too clean up here, Ali, you need a bath!” Swanny yells and Ian lets go.

With an almighty splash, Ali is thrown head first into the whirlpool. Is back on the surface in a second, spluttering, coughing and breathless, laughing and freezing in equal measure.

Can’t see for a second, wipes the water from his eyes.

 

In the middle of the general chaos, whooping and phone videos that are being taken – and the splash fight that just erupted around the whirlpool – nobody (thank god) is paying any attention to Jimmy.

Who’s standing at the back, trying to look as if he is staring into the distance. Trying to give off the impression that he’s really “too old for this stuff”. Wearing his trademark scowl.

To disguise what he’s really feeling. What he’s thinking. Who he’s staring at.

As much as he’d love to pretend otherwise, he can’t turn his eyes away from the whirlpool. From the familiar, laughing (giggling, even) batsman in the water, still in his whites, splashing everyone he can reach. Trying and failing to pull Joe and Swanny in with him.

The white fabric is completely drenched, clinging to Ali’s skin in all the right places. Showing off muscles, unbelievable forearms (somehow Jimmy always forgets just how perfect they are), a toned chest and stomach, nicely bronzed skin and …

“Jimmy? You still with us?” an amused voice shouts.

_Fuck. Fuck, he’s talking to me? What does he want? Not the same thing I do, that’s for sure._

_Okay, enough. Think of something completely different, James. Think unsexy thoughts. NOW. Or this will get even more embarrassing than it already is. You DO not want him to see what you think. You seriously don’t. Remember Fred. And that night in St. Lucia._

That does the trick. It always does.

“Coming!” Jimmy replies and crosses the room, stands in front of the whirlpool. “What do you want from me, your captain highness?” (Which earns him a very hard pat on the back from Swanny, accompanied by a slightly petulant “that’s brilliant, mate, why didn’t I think of that?”)

“Give me a hand, please? It’s getting quite cold in here.” Ali rolls his eyes, grins and tries to climb out of the pool.

Jimmy tries not to laugh and – despite himself ( _PLEASE don’t look me in the eye_ ) – holds out his right hand, takes Ali’s hand, steadies him ( _no ogling, no staring, not even a furtive glance, okay?_ ) and helps him out.

They stop a few inches away from each other. Ali straightens himself, shakes some water out of his trousers.

Their eyes meet. The grin drains from Ali’s face.

Is replaced by something different. Something new. Something unusual and – breathtakingly handsome.

Jimmy feels his breath catch in his throat. Overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of his feelings. Knows what he really, really wants to do just now and absolutely can’t bring himself to. Will never be able to bring himself to. Because Ali doesn’t think of him like that.

“Jimmy, I…” Ali sounds strange. Hoarse. His eyes still haven’t left Jimmy’s.

A towel hits Jimmy on the back of the neck.

He turns around growling, tries to see who threw it, finds Swanny failing to keep a straight face. “You idiot.” _That was quite an impressive glare, given the circumstances. Also – though I’ll never tell you so – thanks, Swanny. Just in time. I would have done something completely stupid. In front of everyone._

“Dry up, Cooky, we’ve still got stuff planned for you!” Ian laughs.

Jimmy hands Ali the towel, feels like the biggest idiot in the world.

_I almost risked it. Everything. This can’t happen again. This can’t turn into a Fred situation again. Ali’s different. He isn’t Fred. He means something completely different to me. So much more._

Stuart shoots him a slightly worried glance that can only mean “Need to talk?”.

Jimmy nods. Gestures “later, but thanks.” Relaxes a bit.

_I almost ruined seven years of friendship. At least I’ve got someone I can tell this to._

_Someone who understands._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7fNMgncH5-w   
> song for this one (for Jimmy's part).


	9. Where once was light, now darkness falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perth, Melbourne and Sydney, December 2013 and January 2014.  
> A series following Murphy's law. Where everything that can go wrong, goes wrong. Resolves are shattered, arguments escalated, nerves frayed and everything comes to a head.  
> But among the Ashes, a new friendship is forged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hits you with all the feelings at the same time.  
> I am sorry.

Barely two months ago, he was looking forward to going to Australia.

Barely two months ago, he was excited about the upcoming tour, a back-to-back Ashes series, optimistic that they could continue their good run of form. Confident in himself as captain and in his team.

It feels a lifetime away.

Even now, as Ali sits in the gardens of their hotel in Perth (the first ten minutes he’s got to himself all day), even after two weeks of slowly mounting tension, he can’t put the finger on the exact day things started going wrong. Or whether there was something he could have done, should have done earlier. Something that could have halted this increasingly escalating slide downwards. This full-blown crisis.

At first, there were the arguments. Small arguments, heated discussions, a bit of snapping, the occasional door closed with a bit more force than necessary. Nothing too unusual. When a team loses as heavily as they did in the first Test (381 runs! that’s nothing if not empathic), of course everyone wants to take on some of the responsibility for it (almost everyone. Ali clenches his fists.). Nothing he isn’t used to, nothing he can’t deal with.

But it didn’t stop there.

As quiet determination made way to increasingly desperate frustration over the first two days of the second test, the tension began to accumulate. To become palpable. To eventually escalate into full-blown fights (one of which, between Kevin and Jonathan, would have almost become physical, had it not been for Ben and Jonny stepping in just in time).

Bats were slammed against walls and on the ground, insults hissed behind teammates’ backs, words left unsaid and yet obvious for everyone in the vicinity.

And the looks had begun. The slightly worried glances at their captain whenever they thought Ali wasn’t paying attention. The silent, but unmistakeable questions – how long was Ali going to be able to cope with this before he snapped? Was this going to be his last tour?

 

Ali breathes in and out, enjoys the slightly salty air and warm wind. Almost stopped paying attention to the dull headache (so much worse than an actual hangover) that has been his constant companion for the past four days. Since that moment he still sees before his mind’s eye – another one of those lightning-quick deliveries, a Mitchell Johnson trademark, that Jimmy only could fend over to short leg. Followed by a volcanic eruption of noise, Australians running into each other’s arms, jumping, cheering, celebrating. His heart sank.

The Ashes are gone.

After three tests.

 

Just three tests.

In which they played badly. All of them. _Completely rubbish,_ a voice at the back of Ali’s mind tells him (which, for some reason, has a Lancastrian accent).

In which Ali made the wrong decisions, stupid decisions, did not find a recipe against the searing pace of the Australian bowling attack. In which he saw even seasoned teammates like Ian crumble under the pressure, give away their wickets easily.

Three tests in which Ali let his team down.

And his confidence began to slip (he leaves it at that. Knows what he wants to think but can’t bring himself to follow that thought further). Doubts began to creep in, kept him up late at night.

 

He takes another deep breath. His phone buzzes in his jacket.

Slightly panicking, Ali takes it out. More bad news?

 **8 pm – Swanny’s,** his calendar tells him. A sign of the times, really.

On previous tours, Ali would never have had to add “time off with my best friends” to his schedule. He’d just meet up with Swanny and Jimmy after dinner, play darts with them, watch a film or a series (or, if it was Swanny’s night to choose, something trashy and funny on whatever local TV station they could find). Chat, have a laugh, poke fun at their teammates and the Australians. Relax. Forget his anxiety for a few hours. Enjoy their company.

 _Maybe that’s just what I need tonight. Especially after what Andy Flower told me before dinner. About Kevin,_ Ali thinks and gets up. Tries to ignore the anger flaring up in his chest. There’s enough time to confront KP with it tomorrow. There’s only so much he can deal with in a single day.

 

An involuntary sigh escapes Ali as he watches the sun slowly sink on the horizon while he goes back indoors. Such a beautiful summer’s day. Another one. And yet, he feels as if the weather is laughing at him.

To his slight surprise, he feels someone watching him from the lobby.

Turns around and looks directly into a pair of light blue eyes, a familiar, usually cheerful face, looking at him with an unreadable expression.

Joe.

“You okay, Cooky?” he asks quietly. Sounds worried.

Ali shrugs. Can’t bring himself to say anything else. Doesn’t want to give himself away too much, scared of how his young friend might react. _Keep calm. Don’t let them know what you really feel._ (A chorus at the back of Ali’s mind in recent days).

Joe clears his throat. Keeps looking at Ali, evidently wants to say something but isn’t sure how to. Eventually settles for “have a good night”.  _Brilliant, Joe. That’s not what he wants to hear,_ he scolds himself.

“You too,” Ali tells Joe with a weak smile as he waits for the lift. _What was that about?_

 

But before he can explore that thought further, the lift doors open with a “bing”.

Ali steps in, presses the button for the second floor. Despite himself, he starts to relax. A few hours together with Jimmy and Swanny, continuing their re-watch of all four series of “Blackadder”, laughing at the excellent black humour of a TV programme Ali completely missed when it was first on air. Mock fights over who gets to finish the customary bag of crisps, pillows thrown, tickle fights, laughter. Feeling carefree, at least for the rest of the evening.

 

Ali stops at his room, takes two bags of crisps with him, ambles down the corridor until he reaches another identical white door with black numbers on it. 203. Swanny’s room.

He stretches out his hand, wants to knock, when he hears loud voices coming from the other side of the door. Angry voices. Furious voices. Lancastrian.

Jimmy.

“And when for fuck’s sake are you going to tell _him?_ ”

A chill spreads through Ali’s body, settles somewhere deep in his chest. A leaden weight in his stomach. Panic. Plain and simple.

Because this wasn’t Jimmy’s usual “you’re an idiot” tone of voice. The one he naturally falls into when Swanny is getting on his nerves. Or when Stuart is deliberately pretending to ignore him.

No. This was something different. Something worse.

Quiet, cold fury.

Feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders, Ali knocks on the door. Frozen on the spot. Anxious. Doesn’t want to find out what it is they are fighting about. But knows he will, in less time than he needs to prepare himself for it.

Footsteps come closer and the door opens with a click.

 

Swanny stands in the frame.

At least, he looks like Swanny. But his usual grin – equal parts mischievous and friendly – has gone. He’s pale, tense. “Hi.” he says quietly. “Come in. Was just about to start. Did we watch the third episode last night?”

An audible growl from the bed makes both Ali and Swanny jump. “You. Are. Going. To. Tell. Him. And. You. Will. Do. So. Now. Or. Else.” Jimmy hisses through clenched teeth.

Ali feels his knees begin to shake. Leans against the wall. Looks from Jimmy, sitting cross-legged on the bed, to Swanny, standing next to the TV. Back to Jimmy. Who’s shaking with silent anger. Meeting Ali’s eyes. Wants to say something but doesn’t know what.

 

The tension in the room is almost visible. “What’s going on?” Ali asks in a small voice.

Swanny draws an audible, slightly shuddering breath. Tries to speak, chokes himself off. Looks at the blue carpet on the floor and forces himself to look back up again.

“Ali, mate, please don’t take this the wrong way.” There are tears in Swanny’s eyes. “I tried my best. I really did. But … it isn’t getting any better. The pain. I mean. Not the way we’ve been playing. I don’t blame you for anything. But … I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.”

“No.”  Ali whispers.

He did see it, of course he did. He did notice that there was something different in the way Swanny carried himself, two days before the first test was about to begin. Something slightly hesitant, less confident than usual. As if his old elbow injury was flaring up again.

With everything that happened since, the arguments, the fights, someone spilling team secrets to the South Africans via text message (Kevin better provide him with a credible excuse or he’s going to pay. Really pay.), their bad performances, his woeful captaincy – Ali had nearly forgotten about Swanny.  
The guilt is almost unbearable. _I should have said something. Should have taken the time. Should have talked to you. Should not have let you go through this on your own._

 

“I’m so, so sorry.” Swanny looks as if he’s on the verge of breaking down.

Guilt is suddenly replaced by anger. Fury. _You chose the perfect fucking time for that, Swanny. We still have two tests to play, remember? The perfect fucking time for you to chicken out. Leave me alone to pick up the pieces (and that includes Jimmy). I don’t care about your injury, I need you here in the team! My team! Do you really want to leave us? Now?_

Ali clenches his fists, digs his fingernails into his palms until they start to burn. Wants to yell at Swanny. To unleash his anger. His fury. His frustration. Wants to break something. To throw something.

But that’s unprofessional. And unfair.

It’s not Swanny’s fault. What can you really do against a chronic problem?

_If anything, it’s mine. I let him down._

 

Ali sighs and holds his arms out. “I … I understand.”

He hugs Swanny for a long time, feels his friend shake. Closes his eyes, tries to ignore the headache that has increased again. Ignores his own feelings. The anger. The nausea. The sadness. The disappointment. He needs to keep it together. Stay strong for Swanny.

 

Jimmy watches them from the bed, his hands clenched so tight they start to shake. There’s only one thing he really wants to do right now. But he can’t. He won’t. Never. Not today. Ali would take it completely the wrong way.  

Sighing, he gets up and tips Swanny on the shoulder. “I’m sorry. I should not have yelled at you. I was … it’s just … I’m going to miss you.” Jimmy says quietly.

Swanny, face wet with tears, looks at his best friend. “And I’m going to miss you.”

 

They embrace, cling to each other. For a while, nobody speaks.

“When are you going home? Do we need to book you a ticket?” Ali asks in a hoarse voice. Swanny shakes his head. “No, I’ll do it myself, but thanks. I … I want to be back in time for Christmas.”

Jimmy picks up the remote control from the table near the TV. “Shall we?” he asks. “We … we could do with a distraction.” “Good idea.” Swanny gives Ali’s shoulder another short squeeze and sits back down on the bed. Jimmy leans against him and Swanny puts an arm around his shoulders. “Come here, captain.” he says and almost manages a smile.

Ali puts the two bags of crisps down in the middle and settles on Swanny’s left side. Stretches out his legs, leans back against Swanny’s arm.

The theme music begins to play.

Ali looks at their images, reflected in the overhead mirror. Tries to remember how many evenings they spent together in a similar way. How much fun they had. How much they shared as a trio.

And something inside Ali, invisibly at first, starts to break.

 

They travel onwards.

They have to. An Ashes series lasts five tests. It always does.

There is no other choice.

Ali’s 29th birthday comes and goes, with just a small team dinner and a quiet evening, playing darts, chatting, trying to distract themselves as best as they can.

Swanny, who made it home on Boxing Day, keeps texting Jimmy and Ali, sending selfies and photos of a snow-covered English December countryside. Keeps telling them stories of his kids and jokes. Keeps trying to take their mind off things.

 

Off the fear that has settled over the England camp since Shane Watson and Michael Clarke completed the run chase in Melbourne, early, too early, on the fourth day of the fourth test. And sealed yet another crushing, comprehensive victory.

The thought – “this is going to be a whitewash” – is too devastating to voice aloud.

 

And yet, Ali can see it in his teammates’ faces as he looks around the dressing room, as they go through their paces in the nets in Sydney, warm up at the SCG, prepare themselves for the fifth test.

This is going to be a whitewash.

They’re going to lose 0-5. Lose every single test. As if handing the Ashes over wasn’t bad enough.

They’re going to lose nil-five and everyone, always, will think of this series as “Alastair Cook’s failure”. _Some way to go down in history_ , Ali thinks bitterly as he walks back to the pavilion on the first day, after a measly 6.1 overs. _Some way to make a name for yourself._

 

Of course, he tries to keep it together as best as he can over the following two days while Chris Rogers registers yet another century, while the taunts, the cheers, from the Australian supporters, become loud enough for everyone in the field to hear. While he watches Joe on the sidelines, with his neon shirt on, resigning himself to his role as 12th man, to support the others, fetch drinks and towels. Watches KP, sullen and silent, keeping himself to himself in the dressing room, almost constantly on his phone (sending some more texts? maybe. little to nothing Ali can do against it any more. Or wants to.). Watches Ben and Michael, their youngest teammates, slowly give up their attempts to cheer everyone up, fall silent, afraid to speak up in case they get snapped at.

Watches – no, he doesn’t. Because for some inexplicable reason, Ali finds himself avoiding Jimmy over the course of these three painful, long (too long) days in Sydney. Finds himself making excuses not to talk to his best friend or even look at him in the dressing room.

 _Because the moment I look at you, it will be over,_ Ali realises as they stand on the balcony, watch Stuart fight off ball after ball as best as he can while every single delivery is cheered on by an exuberant Australian crowd. _The moment I look into your eyes, Jimmy, you will know what’s really going on. And that_ (he swallows hard and grips the balcony railing with one hand), _that will be too much._

_I need to keep it together._

 

Ali stares down at the pitch, feels the sun beating down, burning his neck. Registers a familiar burning, stinging feeling at the corners of his eyes. _No. Not now. Not here. I need to keep it together. I need to stay strong for everyone._

Blinded by a sudden sharp headache, he dimly registers Stuart climbing up the stairs. Only looks up as he feels a hand on his right forearm. Stuart musters him, slightly pale, exhausted and concerned. “I’m so sorry,” he says quietly. “At least it’s all going to be over soon.” Leans on the balcony next to Ali, takes his helmet off, drops it where he stands. Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to.

Ali nods. Grits his teeth. Continues to stare ahead.

 

Two deliveries later, everything is over. A Michael Clarke catch completes Ryan Harris’ five-fer.

And with it – the dreaded whitewash.

Ali doesn’t know how he manages to stay upright. Has started to shake so badly he worries the others are going to see it. “Downstairs.” he tells everyone, leads them down the balcony and back onto the field. To commiserate with Boyd and Jimmy, shake hands with an ecstatic but (which makes it even worse) mildly sympathetic Australian side. Line up for the presentations and the – excruciating – post-match interviews.

Through it all, Ali just about manages to keep himself together. His face set into that polite solemnity he usually reserves for defeats, he answers the interview questions as best as he can, tries to sound as normal as possible, tries not to give away his true emotional state. _I need to stay strong. The lads need that. I can at least do that for them._

The crack somewhere inside Ali that first appeared on that terrible night Swanny told him he was leaving, has deepened. As he watches a beaming Michael Clarke being handed the urn (the urn), hoist it into the bright afternoon sunshine with both hands (it really looks stupid, Swanny was right), Ali feels something inside him shatter. Never to be replaced. Or repaired.

 

They leave the pitch as soon as they’re able to. Get changed, take showers. Don’t want to hang around. Or wait for an inevitable invitation to the Australian dressing room (if that’s even happening tonight. Maybe they’re sympathetic enough to have seen their opponents’ collective pain.).

They file into the bus, one by one, silent, lost in thoughts, some wearing headphones.

Ali heads for his customary seat at the back. His favourite seat. Usually.

He leans his head against the glass window and closes his eyes. Feels tears threatening to break out.

Hopes nobody will see it. Or try to talk to him.

Can’t wait to be back in his room. On his own.

 

He is so lost in his own thoughts that at first, he doesn’t register someone sitting down next to him, slightly hesitantly and a bit cautiously. A weight presses down on his right hand. Curiously, Ali opens his eyes.

“Joe?”

Joe smiles weakly, covers Ali’s right hand with his left. “You don’t have to talk.” he whispers. Leans a little closer, selects a new song on his IPod. Looks straight ahead, keeps his hand where it is.

Immense gratitude threatens to overwhelm Ali. A simple, yet kind gesture. From the last person he’d have expected it. After all, Joe has every right to be angry at him. For the stupid decision to leave him out of the squad in this last test.

But here he is, sitting next to Ali on the bus. Doesn’t offer any platitudes or comforting words. Is just there. Keeps him company. Wants Ali to know he’s not alone.

“Thanks.” Ali whispers almost inaudibly.

Is met with a gentle, warm smile. _Wow. I never expected that._

 

The bus pulls up in front of the hotel. In almost complete silence, everyone gets out, carries their kitbag back up the stairs and to the respective rooms. Two days off until the ODIs. Two days to put most of their disappointment behind them and start again. A daunting prospect. Not helped by the knowledge that they’re all going to be in for a frosty reception at home.

Dinner is excellent, as usual. As if everyone at their hotel decided to cheer them up as best as possible. Nevertheless, Ali finds himself unable to eat more than a few bites. Feels nauseous with nerves. Exhausted with the effort of giving nothing away, of keeping up appearances.

Ali excuses himself before dessert – “I’m full, thanks” – ignores Jimmy’s gruff and definitely worried question if he should come with him – gets up and more or less on autopilot, takes his key, climbs up the stairs, to his room. Shuts the door, doesn’t switch on the light. Lets himself flop down on the soft carpet, looks out of the window at the night now slowly setting over Sydney. Hugs his knees close to his chest.

Feels drained. Empty.

 

When Ali left the dining room, Jimmy tried as best as he could to keep his expression neutral. Not to let his alarm, his sudden anxiety, register on his face. “I’ll deal with it, don’t worry”, he told Stuart quietly, finished dessert as soon as he could.

Made a few phone calls to his family, glad for their support, their sympathy, their kind words, for his sister trying to cheer him up by telling him about his niece’s first attempts to go ice-skating. Anything that could ease the pain of a whitewash.

And the deep, lasting, lingering worry about Ali.

Because as much as Ali tried to keep up appearances since Swanny left, Jimmy saw right through him. Saw his best friend’s determination and resolve that had got him so far crumble, completely shatter earlier in the afternoon when Boyd’s wicket fell. Saw the tears threatening to break out while Ali completed his post-match interview. Saw his pale, set face, heard him sigh, felt the despair radiating off him.

It is almost too much to bear. _There’s so much I want to do right now. And I can’t._ He desperately wants to hold Ali close, comfort him, tell him it’s all going to be okay. Hold him and support him. Be there for him. As Ali has so often been there for Jimmy.

 

Jimmy grits his teeth, pushes the thought he just had – that other thought – far away because it is not helping at all. Fishes his spare key out of his back pocket, gets into the lift, pushes the button for Ali’s floor.

Tries to run through what to say to him. _And don’t do anything else. Not today. Definitely not today._

He leaves the lift, pauses in front of Ali’s door, tries to calm himself as best as he can.

Knocks.

The door is open.

 

“Ali?” Jimmy asks cautiously. Strains his ears. But all he can hear are muffled voices further down the corridor, the buzzing of the lifts and the air condition and from afar, someone playing the ukulele (typical Joe).

Jimmy pushes the door open quietly, closes it as gently as he can. Doesn’t want to startle him.

 

The sight of the hunched figure sitting on the floor, staring out of the window, completely immobile, is enough to make Jimmy choke up.

 

And now he hears a new sound. A terrible sound. Shuddering, irregular, fast breaths.

Like someone fighting as hard as he can to keep the tears in check.

 

Jimmy crosses the room without thinking twice. Crouches down next to Ali, gently touches his shoulder with one finger. “It’s me.” That was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

Slowly, as if every movement causes him incredible pain, Ali looks up. His dark brown eyes are swimming in tears.

_Goddamn it. I should have done something much, much earlier._

 

But it’s not the time to think about the emotional chaos that has been a part of Jimmy’s life for the past three years. Not the time, not the place.

 

Jimmy holds a hand out, pulls Ali to his feet…

and Ali flings his arms around Jimmy’s neck and starts to sob unrestrainedly.

Five weeks’ worth of frustration, of anger, of worry about Jonathan, of disappointment about Swanny, of stress with KP and whatever he was or wasn’t telling the South African, everything comes to a head, forces its way out of Ali at the same time, is washed away in a veritable food of tears.

 

Jimmy keeps his eyes closed, holds Ali safe in his arms, strokes his back.

“Shh. It’s all okay. I’m here. Let it out.” he mumbles, doesn’t know how he manages to keep himself together. Feels Ali cling to him, Ali’s entire body shake with the force of his emotions.

 

Gradually, after what feels like an eternity, Ali’s breaths become more even. The fierce grip around Jimmy’s shoulders lessens a bit, he slightly extracts himself from his best friend’s arms, meets Jimmy’s eyes. His own eyes are painfully red, traces of tears still fresh on his cheeks.

“Thank you.” Ali says in a small, exhausted voice. Yawns. It was a long day.

“No problem,” Jimmy whispers past the lump in his throat.

 

A very weird idea hits him. Before he can think twice, Jimmy leads Ali over to the bed, his right arm still around Ali’s shoulders. “Lie down.” “And … you?” “Don’t worry. I’m staying.”

Jimmy doesn’t think he’s ever sounded so soft, so gentle, before.

With an almost invisible grateful smile, Ali sits down, pulls the blanket back. Curls up as best as he can.

Jimmy gets in next to him, holds an arm out - and Ali snuggles up to Jimmy as close as he can, one arm gripping Jimmy’s waist. Lets his head rest on Jimmy’s chest, closes his eyes.

(And the wave of emotions that washes over Jimmy in this instant: impossible to put into words.)

“Sleep.” There it was again. This weird gentle tone. So unlike him. “I’m here. I’ll keep you safe.”

 

Jimmy holds Ali close, closes his eyes. Gives himself over to his own confused thoughts.

Through the walls on his right, he hears Joe playing the ukulele and singing to himself. A song Jimmy doesn’t recognise at all. Nevertheless, his ears are drawn to the sound.

“I see you standing here, but you’re so far away…”

_Just perfect. Just fucking perfect._

In the darkness of Ali’s hotel room, not wanting to move for fear of waking his best friend (now soundly asleep on his chest) up, Jimmy loses control. Loses himself. Lets the tears stream down his face.

Has never felt so helpless before.

 

Sunlight streams in through the windows and wakes Ali from a deep and dreamless sleep. It takes him a few seconds to get his bearings again. To remember last night. The presentations. The dinner. And – what is that soft thudding noise he keeps hearing?

Ali blinks, his eyes refocus. Realises there’s an arm around his waist, holding him close. A familiar smell hits his nostrils. He’s … _I slept in Jimmy’s arms. All night._

_So, that sound I’m hearing. That soft thud. That’s … Jimmy’s heart._

Despite himself, Ali feels a shiver run down his spine. _He was there for me. He still is. Jimmy. Whatever would I do without you._

He’s hit with an inexplicable urge to pull Jimmy close, into his arms. To … _No, stop it, Alastair. You’re not thinking straight. Get yourself out of bed and go for a run. That helps. Because this, whatever it is? This isn’t happening._

Ali slowly gets up, almost in slow motion. Grabs his running shoes, shirts and short from the wardrobe, pulls it an, gently closes the door and goes downstairs.

To find - to his immense surprise – that the hotel lobby is not empty.

To find a lanky young blonde batsman in similar attire, who turns around when he hears Ali’s footsteps. And gives him a shy grin. “Morning.” Joe says carefully. “I … I couldn’t sleep.” he adds awkwardly and stares at the floor. “Thought I’d go clear my head.”

“Join me?” Ali asks and briefly wonders why he’s done so. He’s always run alone. Tried to sort out everything with just the wind in his hair and his feet in his favourite running shoes, carrying him forward.

But something changed, last night, on the bus, back to the stadium. Something Ali can’t put a name to right now. But it feels right. He needs company. _I need this right now. You._

“Thanks.”

And so, Ali and Joe set off together, down the stairs, out into the garden and towards the beach.

Into the sunlight of another too bright Australian summer’s morning.

The pain of the whitewash still fresh in both their minds.

But they’re not alone.

They’ve got company.

Each other.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two songs for this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=klPZIGQcrHA (as a general background) - and very obviously:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T6uiijYqXnI.


	10. Two Balls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England vs Sri Lanka, Headingley, 2014.  
> A blossoming friendship offers slight relief from the creeping gloom of yet another Test match slipping from Ali's grasp.  
> And ending in the most heartbreaking of ways. So, really, no time to think about why he's suddenly feeling weird when he's close to Jimmy.

This early in the morning, the park is almost completely empty. A gentle breeze ruffles the hundred years-old lush green oaks and poplars. Although it is barely an hour past sunrise, the sky is already a very shining blue. It promises to be yet another hot day.

Birds hop about on the lawn and look for worms. A squirrel jumps from tree branch to tree branch.

And two young men in navy blue tracksuits, both wearing headphones, go through their paces together, run laps on the gravel paths that line the park.

Lost in thoughts, listening to music (Ali’s really starting to get into that band Joe introduced him to last week. The Maccabees or whatever their name was. He’s never been good at remembering these things.). Alone – and yet together. In companionable, amicable silence. Enjoying the fact they don’t have to talk just yet. Unless they want to.

What started out as a purely spontaneous idea, back in January after that horrible evening at the SCG, is now slowly evolving into a ritual. Something both Ali and Joe start to look forward to.

Almost every day, unless Ali is busy dealing with whatever newest KP-related comment appeared in the media the night before (Does the man not know when to shut up? KP had better not cross paths with Joe.), they meet up at 6:30, sometimes at 7 am. Take turns deciding on the route, set out together, wearing headphones. Very occasionally have a chat. About their batting plans for the day or recent funny events happening in the England camp (which mostly seem to be related to Stuart. And his endless (completely puzzling to Ali) love for Instagram).

But mostly, especially on days like today, they don’t want to talk. Or need to.

Joe completes his sixth lap, looks at his watch. “Think we should head back.” he says, wiping his brow. “How is it 7:30? Completely lost track of time.” Ali replies as he’s caught up with him. Joe shoots him a look. One of his favourite expressions (and Ali’s, recently) – friendly, warm and ever so slightly mischievous. “Race you back to the hotel?” he offers.

“Sure.” Ali can’t help but smirk back at him. _You manage to cheer me up every single time. You’re almost infectious. And yet – there’s an entirely different layer to you as well. One I’m beginning to really enjoy, the more I see of it._

They set off in a sprint, scaring a few pigeons away as they race past.

Joe – to nobody’s surprise – beats Ali by about fifteen seconds. Waits for him at the foot of the stairs, hands raised in triumph. “You’re lapsing, Cookie monster.” he laughs.

And then, Joe’s brain catches up with his mouth. “Sorry. Sorry. I have no idea where that came from. Sorry. That was completely stupid.” His ears turn slightly pink and he won’t meet Ali’s eyes. Can’t hide a bashful giggle. _You’re forgetting yourself, Joe. That’s still your captain. He will think you’re not taking him seriously._

“Cookie monster? Seriously?” Ali grins at Joe. _I don’t know how you come up with half the things you do._ “You think it’s stupid? I’ll stop. Immediately.” Joe mumbles.  “No!” Ali puts a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “I was just surprised, but actually – I like it. Just don’t let the other lads know. Yet. Or I’ll never hear the end of it.” he adds and ruffles the mop of blonde hair below him, laughs again. “You hungry?” “Oh yes.”

“See you in 15 minutes, then. I need to try and wake Jimmy up.” Ali smiles and heads for the staircase.

 

Their room – actually, Jimmy’s room, but that has been a mere formality for the past one and a half years, the amount of nights they’ve spent together since India– is still dark as he unlocks the door. _Typical Jimmy. The most un-morning person I’ve ever met. Well, no surprise there. Couldn’t get him to shut up until half past 11 last night._ Ali takes off his running shoes and goes to the window, pulls the curtains back.

Can’t help but feel a fond smile sneak upon his face as he turns his eyes towards the sleeping figure in the bed. Such a familiar sight over the past eight years (has it really been this long?). One arm wrapped around Ali’s blanket, the other stretched out on the mattress. Curled up under the covers in a way that would look uncomfortable to most people. And with a very small smile.

_I don’t know what you’re dreaming about, Jim. Must be a good dream though._

Ali shakes off the extremely weird warm feeling that has crept over him and bends down to tickle a foot that has escaped from the blanket. “Rise and shine, mate! It’s only day 1.” he says and chuckles to himself. Knows what is about to happen in a second.

And once again, Jimmy lives up to his reputation.

A very impressive growl, a quite hilarious wince and twitch as the foot tries to escape from Ali’s attack, a hand reaches for Ali’s pillow, throws it at him and only misses by an inch.

Followed by an assortment of swearwords as Jimmy slowly pulls himself upright. “You are unbelievable.” he grumbles. Which is not exactly helped by the fact that he’s beaming. _Stop being so soppy, or he WILL notice. And you don’t want that._

“I’m just going to have a quick shower before I go. Be out in five minutes. I’m hungry.” Ali says and grabs his towel. “Run okay?” Jimmy replies and rubs his eyes. To distract himself from the completely inappropriate thought he just had.

“Yep. Rooty still beat me on the way back.” Ali calls from the bathroom.

“That’s old age catching up with you, mate!” Jimmy stretches himself. Really, really, needs to think of something else. Which isn’t easy when you can hear the water running from the bathroom. Which only intensifies the fantasy. _Fuck it. At least he’s not in the same room. And…. oh. Oh fuck._

Jimmy quickly buries his face in the wardrobe. Knows it has just turned an alarming shade of crimson. Well, what else can you do when the one guy you've been increasingly dreaming about has just walked back into the room wearing nothing but a towel? And doesn’t seem self-conscious in the slightest bit as he ambles past you to pick up his boxer shorts and gets dressed?

Jimmy busies himself looking for a t-shirt. Pulls it on, takes a look in the mirror, runs a hand through his hair. And doesn’t notice Ali smiling at him behind his back. With that weird warm feeling in his belly. _Why on earth do you always take so much time in the morning?_

“After you, captain.”

They leave the room, take pains to make it appear like this was all a coincidence (and neither of them realise that Stuart has to hide a grin as he catches up with them in front of the lift). Breakfast. And then on to Headingley. Day one is only two hours away. Another chance to get things right.

 

And for a while, it looks and feels as if they’re going to get things right, this time. Liam bowls a brilliant spell in the first innings. Sam, in only his second Test game, celebrates that milestone that every batsman craves – a century. Gary starts to settle nicely. Their fielding set-ups pay off, for the most part.

For once, Ali is able to ignore that lingering voice at the back of his head. The one that keeps nagging him about his own patchy form. Reminds him how long it has been since he last had an occasion to raise his bat, enjoy the applause from the stands, see everyone on the balcony share his joy, his pride.

They are doing better. They are starting to rebuild.

As he shouts short instructions and occasional encouragements on the field, adds a few tweaks to their set-ups, even joins in with the odd run of The Slips Game (something that Ian introduced to the team almost seven years ago), bends down and concentrates time and time again, ready to stick his hand out for a catch, Ali almost relaxes. For the first time since December.  They are doing better. It may only be lunch on the third day, maybe still too early to predict a result. But he’s not completely hopeless at the job. His job. The job he’s still immensely proud about, no matter how many sleepless nights it has cost him since October 2012.

(“Up yours, KP.” he hears someone say in a low voice as they leave the dressing room to join in the lunch queue. Isn’t sure if he imagined it or not, but he thought he could hear a Yorkshire accent.)

 

But nothing good can last forever. Especially not in this rough patch that they fell into in Brisbane, last November. He really should have known it was too good to be true, that he quite probably jinxed it when he started to calm down at lunchtime.

A frustrating end to the third day, no help from DRS (just as Ali was starting to think he’d got the hang of it). Sri Lanka look like they’re starting to dig in. Settle. Quite easily pass their first innings target.

Ali keeps these thoughts to himself all the way through the first session on the fourth day. Tries not to let the creeping panic register on his features. Keeps his sunglasses on (even though it’s an overcast day). Watches the game, tries to encourage everyone, to stay strong, keeps telling himself that they could still hold on for a draw. That Joe, or Ian, or Sam – or even Matt – still have it in them to rescue their innings. That Jimmy will hit that special zone where he seems to get every line and length right. That it isn’t over yet.

Even as the Sri Lankans pass 400, Ali tries to stay positive. “We can still do this, lads, don’t let the deficit get too big.” he tells everyone in the slips while Liam marks his run-up.

And he tells them the same after Jimmy takes the final wicket, while Sam sprints back to the dressing room alongside him, while they hurry to get padded up and put on their helmets. “We can still do this. We’ll just dig in. We’ll dig in and get through it. One session after the other.”

 

But even as Ali said that, there was this nagging, lingering doubt at the back of his mind. As if he wasn’t quite convinced of it (well he isn’t. Of his own batting ability, that is). As if it was just something you need to say, need to do as captain.

Joe, of all people, seems to have picked up on it.  On the slight hesitant tone in his voice, despite the confident smile. Because, while Ali adjusts his pads, ready to get back out into the middle, there’s suddenly a hand on his shoulder. And Joe leans close, so only Ali can hear him and whispers: “I’m with you. Every step of the way.” Gives his shoulder a squeeze, grins and lets him pass.

 _You remembered. You just quoted me back to myself._ Ali thinks as he walks out. Looks on the ground, hoping to hide a fond smile. _Unbelievable how it happened, but you’re really becoming one of my crutches._

 

Sadly, his spirits only lift for a bit. He once again gives his wicket away cheaply – and has to watch on, helplessly, as the rest of his top order crumbles around him. Joe gets a much-needed let-off thanks to DRS, but the mood in the dressing room is decidedly downbeat as they head back after stumps on day 4.

Five wickets down and one day to go. That’s not an encouraging prospect. It would take a small miracle for them to even achieve a result from this game.

As the bus takes them back to the hotel – a relatively silent bus, punctuated only by quiet chats – the panic hits Ali like a mis-timed bouncer. Leaves him reeling, dizzy, with the force of it. _We’re going to fail. Again. I’m going to fail. No wonder they’re calling for my head in the press._

Ali forces himself to eat something and quickly heads for bed. Tries to read a few pages in the novel he bought before the series began but finds himself unable to focus on the plot. Realises he’s been reading the same sentence for the past ten minutes and throws the book back on the nightstand with a frustrated sigh. Lies back, stares at the ceiling. Feels his stomach churn, tries to shut off the part of his mind that insists on telling him how exactly everything is going to turn to shit the following morning. How long – or little – it is going to take the formidable Rangana Herath and his attack to clean everything up. Seal the test – and series – victory.

A groan and the sound of something hitting the mattress next to him rouses Ali from his gloomy reverie. “What’s wrong?” he asks the ceiling. Doesn’t want to meet Jimmy’s eyes right now. “They’re getting on my bloody nerves. Everyone.” Ali hears, muffled by the pillow. Has to stifle a laugh despite it all. Jimmy may have made fun of Swanny for playing the drama queen every now and then, but that was a reaction worthy of their best friend.

“Let’s sleep.” he offers (weird. His voice sounded – and felt – completely different.). Gets a grunt as reply. Laughs quietly as he switches the lights off.

And a hand – a familiar hand, with scars and the distinct calluses that every fast bowler seems to get after a while, yet still warm, and absolutely comforting – wanders over the mattress, takes Ali’s hand, holds Ali’s fingers between his. “Who knows. We might still pull this off.” a – less grumbly than usual – voice says in the darkness somewhere next to Ali. (And did Ali imagine it or is there a finger stroking the back of his hand?)

“We might.” Ali agrees and squeezes Jimmy’s hand gratefully. _I am not alone. I’ve got you._

 Closes his eyes, lets himself drift off.

 

Breakfast on the fifth morning is a subdued, quiet affair, nobody in the mood to eat a lot. They take a long look at the clouds, try to predict if – and when – it’s going to rain (really not a good sign, once you start to hope that the weather will be in your favour).

Pack up and head to the ground.  Mo and Joe warm up, put on their pads. Ready to rescue the innings, the game, their collective pride (and their captain’s career). Before Joe heads out, Ali gives him a brief hug. “You’ll be fine. I know you will.” he says quietly. Feels some of the tension leave his body as well as Joe meets his eyes with a slightly shy smile. “We’re in this together.”

Ali takes up his usual spot on the balcony next to Jimmy. Takes a deep breath. _It isn’t over._

 

Up until lunch, they remain cautiously optimistic.

No wickets lost in the first two sessions. Only two more to go. It isn’t over yet.

They try to switch off as best as they can, spend the best part of lunch playing with Jimmy’s blue talisman ball. Listen to the radio tunes drifting down from the hallway, try to decipher songs. Support each other.

Mo fishes a plastic bag out of his backpack. “Anyone want some nuts?” “Cheers, brilliant idea.” Sam says and helps himself to a handful. He passes the bag around the room.

When the bag reaches Joe, he takes a long look at its contents and wrinkles his nose. “Sorry, Mo, thanks, but I have to give these a miss.” Joe explains and has to stop himself from laughing as he catches Ali’s eyes. “Why? What’s wrong?” Mo asks, puzzled. “Well. Pistachios. I do NOT like pistachios.” Joe explains and throws the blue ball over to Stuart.

A few surprised smirks. “How can you not like…?” Sam wants to ask but is cut off by Ali who winks at Joe. “Excuse me, there’s nothing wrong with not eating pistachios, Sam. Don’t fancy them myself.” Ali explains, looks at Joe and they both simultaneously start to giggle. _That was it. That was when we hit it off._

“What on earth are you two on about?” Liam pokes Joe in the side. “Too long to explain.” Joe replies and smiles at Ali. Throws a chocolate bar in his general direction. “Proper snack, that.”

And Ali catches it with one hand, returns the smile. _You cheer me up. Again._

Quietly confident, Joe and Mo walk out to bat after lunch. Only two more sessions.

 

But then – oh then, Joe gets it wrong. And the Sri Lankans, like any good Test side, start to believe again. Start to realise their plans will come together, that they’re really in it to win.

As wicket after wicket falls, the gloom settles back on Ali’s shoulders like a heavy weight. Every “come on, Matty, if there’s anyone who can survive until stumps, it’s you”, quickly replaced by dejection. A punch in the stomach. The realisation that they’re only a handful of wickets away from yet another defeat.

 

Through it all, Ali gives nothing away. Doesn’t let his nerves show. Sends everyone out on the field with his customary pat on the back and a “go well.”

Forces himself to smile even though he feels like disappearing. Inside a cupboard. Like hiding until it’s all over. As he did in Cardiff, almost five years ago. But that was only possible back then.

Now he’s got responsibilities. The lads need him.

Suddenly he feels a hand on his left arm, looks up with a start. “We’re in this together.” a voice with a soft Sheffield accent says. Even that voice is tense, wavers slightly.

Joe. Who else. With his reliable instinct, figuring out when he’s needed the most.

Ali takes a deep breath. Realises how good it feels to have Joe so close. Whispers “thanks” and leans back on the railing next to his friend. Together, they keep staring down on the field.

(What they don’t know: that Swanny, up in the TMS cabin, has been watching them. And given a silent thanks to Joe as well. Ali needs someone to look after him. Especially today.)

 

And then Stuart is out, beaten lbw by that old fox, Herath. And it’s Jimmy’s turn.

Not that he has ever looked anything other than completely miserable when (as he would put it) forced to bat. But today, there’s something else. _He’s scared._ Ali realises with a start as he watches Jimmy. _He’s scared and he has every right to be. And there’s nothing I can say that will make him feel better._

He just holds Jimmy’s gaze for a while. Tries to put everything into that look that he can’t bring himself to say out loud. Watches Jimmy grit his teeth, take a deep breath and go out.

“Just hold on. It isn’t long.” Stuart whispers in Jimmy’s general direction. “Only an hour to go.”

An hour. Sixty minutes.

 

The minutes pass painfully slowly.

Matty starts to keep a list on the back of a receipt for their coffee order at lunch time. Starts to add a tick after every over Jimmy and Mo survive out in the middle.

For a short while, some of their anxiety is relieved when Mo – their rock amidst the chaos– reaches his first ever Test century. But Mo doesn’t even take off his helmet. He waves his bat at them and concentrates again just seconds later. No reason to celebrate just yet.

“How many left?” Stuart leans over to Matt who raises three fingers in reply.

Three overs. 18 balls. If Jimmy and Mo manage to survive them somehow, they’ll have achieved a small miracle.

The tension up on the balcony has reached fever pitch. Having to watch, helplessly, feels like the ultimate penalty. Having reason to hope right until the end almost makes it worse.

Ali leans as close to Joe as he can. Bites his lip. _Come on Jimmy. You did it in Cardiff._

Ball after ball. And still, Jimmy and Mo hang on.

Only one to go. Six balls.

Ali feels like he has forgotten to breathe as he realises the worst possible thing has happened. As he sees Jimmy take up guard at the striker’s end.

He stares down at his best friend on the pitch, would give almost everything to swap places with Mo right now. To help Jimmy, give him a few tips, calm Jimmy down just by being on the pitch with him. (Like Jimmy’s doing for Ali.)

 

Joe keeps his eyes fixed on the little red ball as if he could guide it to the boundary just by looking. “Bring it home, Jimmy.” he whispers.

 

And for four balls, Jimmy clings on.

But it isn't enough.

 

A shocked silence has settled over the balcony. Hope, alive for an hour, only to fall at the penultimate hurdle. There are no results more cruel than this. No defeats (except for the Ashes) more crushing, more heart-breaking.

Stuart has to fight back tears as he sees Jimmy crouching on the outfield. Wants nothing more than to run down, give him a hug, tell him nobody is blaming him for anything. Stops himself, shakes his head. Sighs and hugs Liam.

Ali silently gestures downstairs. Disappointment, sadness and intense anxiety make it impossible for him to think well. Except for one thing. _I let all of you down. Again._ He swallows hard, tries to calm himself down. _Jimmy, I’ll be with you in a second. I’m right here. I’ve got you._

Jimmy’s headache intensifies when he sees the small, mournful procession coming their way. He mumbles something non-committal to the Sri Lankans who have wandered over, offering friendly words of commiseration. Knows just what Ali will say to him, can’t bear to meet his eyes right now.   _I’d break down. Break down and_ _do something incredibly stupid as well. Probably._ Feels a hand on his back. “Shit happens.” Liam says hoarsely. “You fought well, Jimmy.”

Jimmy nods, follows the others who line up to shake hands with their still giddy opponents (it’s their first ever series victory in England, they are allowed to go a little bit nuts).

As he looks up towards the commentary boxes, he wonders what Swanny makes of it all. Can you really try and stay neutral as a commentator when one of the teams you’re reporting on consists of some of your best friends, when you know exactly what they’re going through right now? He makes a mental note to ask Swanny next time they speak. _Not today, though. I’m done for._

 

Joe keeps constant eye contact with Ali while he just about makes it through the interviews and the presentations. Sees Ali’s tense face, notices he keeps fiddling with something on his left hand (an armband?). Hears the slight waver in Ali’s voice, knows how close to breaking down his captain is. _I need to come up with something. Look after him. Because he’s always looking after everyone else._

“Player of the Series for England – James Anderson!” Michael Atherton announces. Ali can’t believe his ears. _No. Not today. Not that he’s earned it, but he’s in NO condition to speak. Please don’t make him,_ he tries to plead silently, but he knows it’s in vain. That’s part of the protocol.

Jimmy climbs the podium to warm and sympathetic applause. “Yeah, we got quite close and I’m obviously gutted to…” He trails off, looks at his shoes. Tries to keep calm as best as he can (quite tough when you have a lump in your throat that presses down hard on your vocal chords). Somehow manages to answer Athers' (who's smiling at him sympathetically) questions without losing it completely.

Ali’s bitten his lip so hard he tastes blood. Concentrates on breathing in and out, looking solemn as the Sri Lankans celebrate with the series trophy. (A part of him is annoyed at himself for taking it so hard. It’s only a two-test series. Hardly the end of the world.) Starts to think about what to say to Jimmy. Although he knows that no words will help.

They leave the field to friendly applause and a lot of encouraging shouts. Head for the safety of the dressing room.

 

And Ali braces himself for the press conference. Feels the pitying, “we’d really take this off you if we could” looks on him as he crosses the dressing room hastily, adjusts his whites, tells himself to keep calm and considers what he should say (he really never wants to do this and especially not today). Shoots a worried look in Jimmy’s direction, doesn’t see him straight away, but his brief panic is relieved by Stuart who mumbles “he’s in the shower.”

On better days, everyone makes fun of him as he heads out to talk to the press (“Do you think you’ll manage a single sentence without “um” or “you know?”). But today, nobody wants to. Not while they hear muffled victory chants in … Singhalese, that’s the name of the language. Chants that remind them.

Ali waves at everyone, wants to open the door when he feels an arm around his shoulders.

“Joe?” “I’m coming with you.” Joe states matter-of-factly.

Every “no seriously, you don’t have to” is stuck in Ali’s throat as he catches Joe’s facial expression – sincere, honest and mostly, “I am not leaving you alone today.” Ali takes a deep breath, looks at him gratefully. _You noticed._

They leave the dressing room. Pause in front of the media area, look at each other. “I’m with you.” Joe says quietly. Ali hugs him again. “Thanks.” “Any time.” There it is again, that fond smile. Just the encouragement Ali needed.

 

Jimmy remains silent for the rest of the evening. Utterly drained, unable to even complain about anyone. Or anything. Too dejected. Too sorry that he lost concentration with the bat.  Again. And screwed everything up. Made Ali’s life even more difficult than it already is. _Some best friend you are. You should support him. Not wallow in self-pity about this thing you really can’t do anything about. Because it’s never going to change. Accept it._

He retreats upstairs as soon as he can. Takes a shower, feels his muscles ache. A good pain. A pain that distracts him for a bit.

Slips on fresh boxer shorts, lets himself fall into bed. Waits for Ali (how is he still keeping it together today?) to join him, pulls the blanket around him like a safety jacket and switches the light off.

Is asleep as soon as he’s found a comfortable position.

And finds himself in the middle of a confusing nightmare. A terrible dream, inescapable, panic-inducing, horrifying. That he somehow can’t get himself to wake up from. Curls up tighter. Grips the blanket. Feels tears starting to force their way out.

 

Where’s this hand coming from all of a sudden?

Even in panic, Jimmy realises there are fingers on his cheek. Fingers that softly caress his stubble, wipe away the tears which do not want to stop falling. Have been threatening to do so for a few hours now.

A second hand grabs Jimmy’s shoulder, gives it a brief, careful squeeze.

“Jimmy. Jim. Wake up.”

Jimmy blinks.

It’s pitch dark. Warm. The room smells of laundry detergent and one of his favourite shower gels. And there really is a hand on his cheek. Slightly rough (gloves or no gloves, when you spend hours on the field gripping a bat, it does show up on your hands after a while), but soft. Warm. Strokes his skin.

Warm dark brown eyes look down on Jimmy.

“It was just a bad dream.” Ali says quietly, comfortingly. Holds him, keeps looking at him.

Jimmy meets his eyes. A mistake.

The aftermath of his nightmare, the unshakeable feeling that he’s failed, really failed, let Ali down. And everything he’d really want to do right now. But can’t.

It’s all too much for a single day. And definitely for him.

Jimmy breaks down again.

“Oh no, Jim.” Ali whispers. Wraps his right arm around Jimmy’s shoulders. Pulls him close. Strokes his back with long, sweeping, calming movements.

“It’s okay. Really. That’s okay. We’re all hurting tonight. It was cruel. Nobody’s angry with you. I’m definitely not angry with you.” Ali says softly. Keeps touching Jimmy, comforting him.

And if Jimmy didn’t know better, he could swear that Ali’s voice was thick with emotion.  But he can’t focus on that right now. He’s all too aware where he is right now. With who.

“Ali?” His voice sounds distant, far-away. “Hm?”

“I hope I didn’t scare you as well?” And Jimmy doesn’t have to have the lights on to know Ali’s giving him this adorably quizzical grin of his again.

“Only… your heart’s going a bit fast.”

(Not to mention mine. _Why did I say that?_ )

 

Instead of a reply, Ali pulls him even closer. Jimmy yawns. “Go back to sleep.” Ali whispers and Jimmy can hear the smile in his voice. “I’m here.”

Jimmy closes his eyes. It has been a uniquely exhausting day.

Just before he drifts off, he briefly feels lips brushing his forehead.

_I’m only making that up. That can only be a dream. It needs to remain a dream._


	11. The darkest of days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This one lives up to its title.  
> I am so, so, sorry. 
> 
> December 2014.  
> A disastrous ODI tour to Sri Lanka ends with not entirely unexpected, but still heartbreaking news for Ali.  
> Followed by a painful fight.  
> And a revelation at the worst possible time.

“Please don’t take this personal. We need to think about the rest of the team as well.”

Ali can still feel this sentence echo in his mind.

It was meant kindly. That much is true. Peter does like him, after all. It can’t have been easy for him to deliver this message.

Nevertheless, it hurts unbelievably to hear. It feels like they are taunting him. Like “you’re a bad influence on the other guys, the way you’ve been playing for the past 12 months” (which is true, he thinks bitterly). Like “they’re better off without you. You’re dragging everyone down.”

As if this year wasn’t bad enough before that tour to Sri Lanka.

Ali blinks back tears (they seem to sit very loosely in recent months). Sighs deeply and walks down the staircase to the ground floor. To his car.

Simply wants to go home. Before the press arrive at ECB headquarters.

Home.

Finally be alone.

With his disappointment, his grief and his thoughts.

Mechanically, not very convincing, he waves at Charlotte Edwards who has just arrived. Her friendly “Morning, Cooky”, stings like a run-out.   _Morning. Yep, It’s a good morning for you, I guess. You’re not facing the beginning of the end._

Ali unlocks his car, presses the “home” button on the navigation system. Doesn’t want to remember. Is more than happy to let the computer and the satellites do all the work for him.

Before he drives off, he switches his phone off and drops it on the back seat. Knows it will start to ring and beep incessantly very soon (news does travel fast). Knows the lads – his lads – will find out in very little time.

Or, perhaps, his phone will stay silent for the rest of the day? Because they’re all secretly glad to be rid of him? Because they all agree, behind his back, that it was high time he was sacked?

(“You sure think a great deal of yourself!” he hears KP hiss. Feels nauseous. Just like in March, during the ugliest fight they ever had.)

Absent-mindedly, Ali switches his iPod on, plugs it into the speakers. Goes through his music library until he finds a song that is loud enough. A song that can drown out his thoughts. The spiral.

(No surprise – “Enter Sandman” by Metallica. Joe sent him the file before they left for Colombo. Told Ali that it was his favourite song when he needed to let off steam).

With the volume turned up to 11, Ali embarks on the long, painful, drive home.

 

Two hours through a stunning, slightly icy countryside (of course, to add insult to injury, it’s the first sunny day in more than a week) later and Ali finally turns around the corner, pulls up in front of his house.

He parks the car, takes his phone, puts on hat, gloves and a jacket and his headphones. Gets out and heads for the forest behind his garden. Like he always does when he needs to get away from it all.

**“Hello Ali, this is Graham Gooch. I just heard the news. Thought I’d let you know – in case you need me, I’ll be in Chelmsford today and tomorrow until 6 pm. Back on the 27 th. Also, I hope you do remember you can always call me.”**

Freezing slightly (actually a welcome change), Ali lets himself back into the house. A cup of tea and a couple of biscuits. And something – anything – on TV. Something that leaves him no time to think. Or talk. Despite everything in him yelling not to, he switches his phone back on.

 

“You have two new messages.” the answering machine tells Ali.

Graham – no surprise there – and:

**“Hi, mate, it’s me. Straussy. I actually heard it two hours ago. Thought I didn’t want to call straight away. In case you … anyway. Really no idea what to say. That was disproportionate if you ask me. Anyway, I’m here if you need someone to talk to.”**

 

Ali leans back into the sofa cushions, one hand gripping his pleasantly hot cup of tea. Stares at the TV without really watching (it has to be the 524th re-run of one of these sit-coms). Turns the phone back to silent mode, puts it down on the coffee table.

Doesn’t notice tears running down his cheeks (ever since Graham’s message finished).

Of course, his old mentor, his great idol, was the first one to call. He’s still thinking about Ali. Still wants to make sure he’s okay.

Objectively spoken, a morning in the nets with Graham would help Ali immensely. Graham has watched his batting for more than a decade. Surely, he’ll come up with an idea. With an exercise or a tweak that will help Ali to fix this. Whatever it really is.

But logical solutions are one thing.

Complete exhaustion is something else. Ali isn’t sure if he’s going to find enough energy to leave the house today, let alone tomorrow. Isn’t sure if he can face being out in public, after the news were on, after the entire country knows about his disgraceful end to an unbelievably bad year.

Wants nothing more than to curl up here, on the sofa. And shut the world out.

(And talk to Jimmy. But Ali can’t pick up the phone right now.)

 

He picks up the newspaper. Makes sure to leave out the sports section. Finds a long article about the ongoing economic crisis in Zimbabwe and starts to read (briefly smiles as a long-forgotten memory pops up in his mind – Straussy and Jimmy, having a quite heated debate about that exact topic while they were on the plane to god knows where. Half the team got dragged into it, in the end.).

In the meantime, his phone keeps on blinking as messages keep arriving. The lads.

**“They’ve gone completely nuts at the ECB. Ben.”**

**“Really sorry to hear, Chef. Mo.”**

**“Matty just told me. Are they mental? We need you for the World Cup! Anyways – I’m here. Let me know if there’s anything I can do. Stu.”**

**“Hi Cooky. This is a tough one. I definitely didn’t want it to happen this way. And I had no part in this decision. Not sure what else to say. Hope you’re more or less okay. Eoin.”**

Ali shakes his head sadly. Of course, he isn’t blaming Eoin for anything. He’s the logical choice, he is their only in-form batsman in the ODI side. And he’s a genuinely nice guy, their Irishman-turned-English with his flaming red hair and his musical accent. Someone it’s impossible not to like. Eoin would probably have liked to prepare himself a bit more for it. Not to be thrown in off the deep end only a few months before the actual World Cup.

 _I need to call him as soon as everything’s calmed down a bit. Make sure we’re okay with each other,_ Ali decides and – without really being interested – changes channels. Finds his favourite cooking programme. Something he – to nearly everyone’s amusement – watches religiously, likes to collect inspiration for his own recipes.

Today, they’re doing a special episode about the regional kitchens of the Greek islands. But he is barely able to pay attention to the fascinating views of glittering blue sea, gnarly old olive trees and delicious looking fresh fish.

Much to his annoyance, as his phone keeps threatening to blow up under a constant stream of texts and mailbox messages, Ali finds himself hoping to hear from specific people. And feels his stomach sink whenever he sees the name flash on his phone screen and it turns out to be someone else.

Hopes – all of a sudden – to get a message from Swanny. Now.

After their argument (if it even was one) in July. After Ali heard Swanny’s comments on TMS and – to his latent annoyance – took everything his friend said as an insult. When, in fact, Swanny was just trying to be objective (and had more than even a slight point, as this abysmal series proved). They ended up briefly snapping at each other on the phone.

And that was it. He hasn’t heard from one of his best friends in almost four months. Ali knew Swanny was stubborn. And he knows that, objectively spoken, he was the one who called Swanny immediately after he found out. That, objectively, he needs to apologize.

But not now. Not today.

 

More importantly – he looks at his watch, it’s already 12:45 pm – why has there been no message from Jimmy? (And why does even that thought fill Ali with a mixture of dread and – weirdly – something he’d almost describe as butterflies?)

Jimmy has to know by now. Either Stuart told him – they tell each other everything, these days. Or Swanny. Or he found out via the brand-new team WhatsApp group (Ali still needs to find out how to turn the notifications off, but he doesn’t want to ask anyone because they’ll just make fun of him again).

If there’s anyone who knows just how shattered, how devastated Ali really is, it has to be his best friend. Jimmy must know. Jimmy must know how desperately Ali wants to hear from him. How much he’d give for Jimmy to be there with him right now. To lean his head against Jimmy’s shoulder. Feel him. And let everything out. Be himself in a way he can’t be with anyone else.

So, why on earth hasn’t Jimmy sent a text (Ali knows all too well Jimmy does not do phone calls)? What’s going on? What exactly is he doing, for god’s sake? Ali needs him.

 

Ali’s stomach chooses that exact moment to remind him that he hasn’t eaten a thing since that very early breakfast (if you could call a banana and half a toast with honey breakfast). That he really – as nauseous as he still is – could do with lunch.

Glad for a distraction, he picks himself up from the sofa and heads for the freezer. Can’t really bring himself to prepare a fresh meal. Good thing that he’s never short of left-overs.

 

Staying on his feet seems to take the edge off, Ali finds out while he waits for the remains of his cheese and onion pies to be warmed by the microwave oven.

So, after he’s finished eating – without enjoying it too much (and this usually is his favourite meal) – Ali goes to his bedroom, puts on some fresh workout clothes and goes to his gym in the cellar. A session on the home trainer, long enough to feel his muscles ache. To feel that sort of pain that’s good. That helps him not to think.

It’s no use at all today.

While the wheels of the home trainer keep whirring, the only other sound in the entire room except for his slightly laboured breaths, Ali’s thoughts keep circling back to Jimmy. Wondering. Worrying. Hoping everything is alright in Manchester. They haven’t spoken for more than two days, since Ali dropped Jimmy off at London Liverpool Street after they returned home from Sri Lanka.

Which isn’t unusual. But still. Didn’t Jimmy promise he was going to call before Christmas? Because they’d made sort-of-plans to play golf? (And for a multitude of other reasons)

So, why on earth – Ali pauses and looks at his watch again, 2:30 pm now – has there been complete radio silence? What the _fuck_ takes Jimmy so long? To come up with a simple _fucking_ message?

When even Kev – yes, that was really him, even though Ali isn’t sure how sincere that text was – managed to send him a **“sorry to hear about the ODIs, hope you’re okay”**?

Jimmy does have issues with emotions, that’s true. But how hard can it be to just pick up a phone?

Ali climbs down from the home trainer. Is too annoyed to focus anymore.

Throws a few punches at his new punching bag. Which helps.

 

Goes back upstairs, has a shower, makes himself another cup of tea. Stretches out on the sofa, slowly sips the calming hot liquid, stares at the ceiling. Isn’t sure what exactly he’s supposed to be feeling right now. Thinks about Jimmy. _I’m here and I need you. Please get in touch. I need this. I need you._

His grief, which really took a back seat in the last couple of hours, is now back with a vengeance.

 

Ali’s parents call him just as it gets dark, equally disappointed and worried for him. Somehow, he manages to reassure them that he’s okay (doesn’t know if they believe him). That he’s looking after himself. That he’s been through worse patches in his career and he’s always come through it. That no, he’s on his own, but his friends have been there for him.

 

He hangs up and feels a fresh lump in his throat. “Sleep makes everything better. Sleep well, if you can. I love you.” his mum said before she hung up. Just as she used to do when she calmed him down after he had a nightmare.

_And this entire year has been an incessant nightmare._

Of course, there were good things as well.

Joe turning from a teammate he enjoys being around to one of Ali’s most important crutches and closest friends. Matty having to retire because of his injury, but his successor, 24-year-old Jos Buttler from Somerset, turning out to be one of the most talented young wicketkeepers in the country. As well as a really likeable guy who effortlessly fit into the test side. And seemed to form a very fast friendship with Joe (well, who doesn’t like Joe?). Mo scoring his first ever century in only his second test.

That unbelievable reception in Southampton, where, as it turned out, the supporters had agreed beforehand that they would let their captain show how much they still liked and respected him. Where Ali was greeted with the loudest and most heart-warming applause in years as he did the toss, where his 40 not out at lunch might as well have been 440 going by the cheers. Where (he’ll regret that for a while) only a bad decision meant Ali fell 5 runs short of a century (it was for the best, though. Ali isn’t sure if he’d have been able to keep the tears in check if he’d got a hundred).

A few highlights.

Too few to drag him out of this spiral. But they were there. Memories of another life. Of few rays of sunshine among a thick grey, overcast sky.

 

Ali looks at his phone again.

8:20 pm.

And still no text from Jimmy.

Just as he wonders if he should pluck up the courage to call him, his phone blinks.

A text.

Curious despite himself, Ali opens the message with unsteady hands.

And reads – nothing. No kind words. Just a _fucking_ question mark.

_You seriously couldn’t think of anything else?_

For an unfathomable reason, Ali is furious. Feels flames starting to burn behind his eyes. Clenches his fists. Hits – almost stabs- the “call” button before he can think about whether that is such a wise choice.

A few beeps and then – a quiet, careful, more than slightly worried, Lancastrian “hey.”

“Hey?” Ali snorts so sharply that he surprises himself. “Hey? Had a look at the clock at any time today, YOU CUNT?” (The irony – that he’s just repeated some of the first words Jimmy ever spoke to him – isn’t entirely lost on him. Also, that may have been slightly too much.

A short sharp intake of breath. And a shaky, awkward: “What … what’s going on?”

“What’s going on?” Ali’s head is pounding. He knows it’s unfair. But what else can he do?

(Also, the devil at the back of his mind adds, Jimmy brought this onto himself)

With an icy sarcasm worthy of Jimmy – or Graeme, come to think of it – Ali hisses: “Oh, nothing really. I’m fine. Peachy. Just found out 11 – ELEVEN – fucking hours ago that they’re going to sack me as ODI captain. Which, as we both know, is only going to be the beginning. But yes, I had a really great day. I just had a meeting in London this morning. Which I had to go to all by myself. And my phone has been blowing up with messages since I got home. And you fucking know how I much I’m able to deal with that.”

“And what the fuck was I supposed to do about it?” Now Jimmy’s starting to defend himself. As usual.

They are minutes away from a blow-up. Ali can feel it. Knows it. His heart has started to race.

“Bloody hell, you are an adult! You don’t need me to bloody tell you how to react when your so-called best friend has received the worst news of his career so far!” he snorts.

“Don’t you fucking take this out on me!” Jimmy has raised his voice.

“Well, I really could have done with a text. Something simple. Even Kevin fucking Pietersen has been in touch. And I know you’re incapable of expressing any sort of emotion,” Ali takes another deep breath and digs his fingernails back into his palms, “but I’d honestly have been happy with a simple fucking “how are you.” Or “call me.” Or “do I need to beat someone up at the ECB?”. Anything, for fuck’s sake! Instead you have ME worried about you for more than eleven hours!”

“You stop yelling at me this very instant!” Jimmy shouts and Ali has to hold the phone far away from his ear.

A fresh lump in Ali’s throat (why now, all of a sudden).

He swallows, continues softly: “I needed you. I really needed you. Today was the worst day of a year which has been nothing short of a nightmare. And the worst day I had in the past eight years. I really needed to hear from…” He hears his voice starting to tremble. “My best friend.” Blinks rapidly, rubs his chin with his left hand.

A sigh at the other end of the line. And a voice, thick with emotion, but surprisingly gentle: “Do you … do you want me to come over? I could be there in one and a half hours.”

Renewed fury. White-hot and burning.

“No.”

“But … you really shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“Took you long enough.”

“I … erm …. what…”

“You know what?” And it is all Ali can do not to break down. “Forget it. Just…,” traitorous tears threaten to force their way out, to give away his actual emotional state, “just fuck off.”

 

Ali puts down the phone.

He’s shaking so violently that he needs to cling to the armrest to his right. Gasping for breath, just as he always does at the end of the first yo-yo- test in pre-season.

Gives up the fight, feels tears streaming down his face. Sinks back into the cushions, wraps the blanket around him. Feels relieved – and drained. And unbelievably sad.

But why?

Why does this argument hurt him so much?

Why did they even get into an argument? What was he expecting? He knows Jimmy long enough. Jimmy does have his issues with emotional affairs. He always feels uncomfortable in that area.

Usually, Ali is more than okay with Jimmy’s approach to problems. With Jimmy’s slightly unorthodox ways of comforting him (once, they went to the hotel gardens together to rip out a good amount of the leaves of a nearby shrub until Ali felt his anger starting to fade).

So, why does he feel like he’s been punched in the gut?

Why did this feel like a personal betrayal? Like Jimmy let Ali down in the worst way possible?

 

And then.

All of a sudden.

Out of the blue.

Ali realises something.

 

“He’s more than just my best friend.”

 

The words seem to hang in the air. Clear, visible, like a flashing neon-sign. Impossible to escape from. Or to think about anything else. He feels as if time around him has stopped.

Ali’s heart is racing. Pounding. A mixture of panic and … something completely new. As if he’s just discovered a missing piece of a puzzle he didn’t even know he was looking for. And suddenly, everything is starting to make sense.

_He’s more than just my best friend._

_I …_

_I am in love with Jimmy Anderson._

Memories come flooding back.

That night at the MCG, four years ago, after they’d just won the Ashes. Jimmy singing karaoke, dedicating the song to Swanny – obviously, back then they were still deep in their “we’re an old married couple” – routine. Ali still vividly remembers that night. How he’d been unable to tear his eyes away from Jimmy for even one second. Even though this was far from the first time they’d been singing together.

Many, many days in the nets, working together, giving Jimmy tips to improve his batting, adjusting his own tactics with Jimmy’s help. Feeling that special rush of pride whenever Jimmy gets something right, whenever he seems to be actually learning from Ali.

Many more days on the field. Exchanging a look with Jimmy before he starts his run-up. Watching Jimmy charge in, release the ball with breath-taking speed. Feeling a warmth spread through his entire body as he does so.

Last year, at the Oval. After Swanny and Ian had “given him a bath” and Jimmy helped him out of the whirlpool. When they just stood there, for a brief moment. Stared at each other. Nothing else seemed to matter. When, for a few seconds – or minutes, Ali really lost track of time – everything felt like it could be possible. Until Swanny hit Jimmy with a towel.

Ali’s own breakdown in Sydney, last January. The night – the first night – he fell asleep in Jimmy’s arms after he felt like he had entirely run out of tears. Spent the entire night sleeping with his head on Jimmy’s chest, woke up with Jimmy’s heartbeat in his ears and Jimmy’s arms around him, holding him close. Comforting him. Keeping him safe.

Every confusing moment, every intense reaction.  Every time he asked himself what was going on. Everything makes sense.  Now.

In the worst of all moments.

_Perhaps … I’ve known all along. And didn’t want to admit it to myself._

Ali buries his face in his hands. Sobs rattle his entire body.

_There’s no, really no way Jimmy feels the same about me. He just made that very clear._

_I am in love with him._

_And I have lost him._

Jimmy has dropped his phone.

Completely transfixed, he leans against the wall next to his sofa, stares out of the window without seeing anything. Silent tears running down his cheeks, he clenches his fists. Feels his heart shatter, wants to disappear. To run away. To leave everyone and everything behind. Leave him. Because there is no coming back from this.

Not from this argument. This fight.

Because Ali had every right. Every single right to yell at him. To call him names. To call him – him – a cunt. _I guess we’re even now,_ Jimmy thinks with a mirthless laugh.

 _You are such a fucking idiot;_ his brain tells him over and over again. _Sure, you didn’t embarrass him with a confession, this time. Not like Fred. But you made everything worse. Couldn’t you have swallowed your fucking pride for just one second? He needed you to be there for him._

_And you ruined it. And eight years of friendship with it._

Jimmy drags himself over to the window. Lets his head rest against the cool glass pane. Closes his eyes, stops to think. Cries, silently, for everything. For everything he lost with one stupid phone call.

_You deserve so much better, Ali. I don’t deserve you._

Doesn’t know how long he just stands there, gives himself completely over to his heartbreak.

Until the sounds of a car parking in front of his house, followed by footsteps on the path leading up to his front door, startle Jimmy, break the increasingly dark spiral of thoughts he just had.

Someone’s coming. But who?

For a few delirious moments he hopes it’s Ali.

Ready to talk, to make up ( _up, not out, you stupid twat of a brain)_ , to repair things.

But as he goes downstairs to open the door, his heart pounding in his throat, Jimmy realises that can’t be possible. It’s more than one and a half hours between Chelmsford and Manchester. That’s still too early.

Then again, how much time has passed since they hung up on each other?

_And what will I do if it’s really him?_

His breath nearly catching in his throat, Jimmy opens the door.

 

And finds Stuart on the other side.

Stuart, his opening-partner, his sometimes annoying but generally brilliant “little brother”. His friend. The only person in the team who knows about his “Ali problem” (well, that’s settled for good).

Wearing a grey hat, his favourite winter coat and a very weird look. And carrying a bottle of wine.

“Hi, Jim.” Stu says and shakes off his boots. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” Jimmy lets him into the house. “But… why?”

“You were supposed to meet me in Nottingham at 8 pm.” Stuart hangs up his coat. “We wanted to go check out this new Indian restaurant, remember? Only … you didn’t reply to any of my texts. So I started to get worried about you. And decided to check up on you.”

Jimmy bites his lip. “I … I’m sorry. Completely forgot.”

Stuart looks him directly in the eye. “Were you … did something happen?” he asks quietly. “You look like shit.” Instinctively, he moves a bit closer to Jimmy, puts a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder.

Strangely, the touch comforts Jimmy. As if he was really yearning for that all along.

“No … not really. It has been a shit day.” Jimmy shrugs.

Stuart – bravely, by his standards, puts an arm around Jimmy’s shoulders. “You look as if you need a drink. Or three. I don’t mind. I told Gemma I was out with you tonight, so she’s found another babysitter. And I don’t have any plans tomorrow either.”

“You read my mind.” Jimmy admits. _Anything that will make me forget._

They go upstairs, Jimmy grabs two wine glasses from the cupboard in the kitchen. “A new one?”

“Yep, Dad recommended it to me.” Stuart pours the wine and hands Jimmy a glass. “If you want to talk, I’m here. If you don’t want to talk, fine with me.”

They clink glasses and make themselves comfortable on the sofa.

Jimmy switches the TV on, flicks through channels until he finds a suitably funny bad movie.

 

As they drink the – really quite excellent – wine, laugh at the hilariously bad acting and storylines, only chat briefly during commercial breaks, Stuart starts to lean a little closer to Jimmy.

Close enough for Jimmy to notice his very tiny freckles. That Stu only seems to get when they spend significant time in Asia. And smell a new, quite pleasant perfume.

Perhaps it’s the alcohol talking, perhaps it’s his entire confused and messy emotional state, but suddenly, Jimmy is hit with an idea.

Maybe the most stupid idea of a day that has been ripe with stupid ideas.

But maybe this is something he really needs to do right now. He hasn’t done it for a while, true, and it ended up backfiring in the most horrible of ways, last time.

But still. Anything that could help.

 

Maybe everything will be forgotten once he’s got it out of his system.

Jimmy musters his courage, takes a deep breath and pokes Stuart with one finger.

“Stu?”

“Hm?”

“May I … kiss you?”

A brief startled gasp followed by a beaming smile.

Stuart leans even closer, lets one hand rest on the back of Jimmy’s neck, pulls him close and kisses him.

And Jimmy, with reckless abandon, kisses him back.

Soon, there’s a second hand wandering down Jimmy’s back. Exploring, touching, grabbing. Hitting all the spots, effortlessly. A soft, really attractive moan that sends a shiver down Jimmy’s spine. One hungry kiss followed by another.

Jimmy gives himself completely over to it. To the touches. The kisses. Everything.

He needs this. Tonight.

 

 

After an eternity, Ali managed to drag himself to his bed. Pulled the blankets around him, closed his eyes. But sleep, usually such a great help, seems to escape from his grasp tonight.

Just as he really needs it.

Sighing, he looks at his phone again.

11 pm.

It was a long day.

The darkest day of them all.

Just as he feels his eyes beginning to hurt, the phone blinks again.

A new message. A text.

**“Don’t make any plans for tomorrow. I’m coming to your place. I’ll keep you company. If you want. If you’d rather be alone, that’s fine with me. I understand. Joe.”**

_So that’s why I haven’t heard from you all day. You were wondering how you should ask me._

_Joseph Edward Root, you are unbelievable. I really need you. I don’t know where I would be without you._

Ali knows he’s smiling – for the first time in a couple of days. Briefly thinks about it and texts back:

“ **Looking forward to it. :)”**

Yawns and switches his phone off for the night.

_I have friends. I'm not alone.  
_

 

_  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W3RiDJ8_3Lo the most obvious of songs. For both of them.


	12. With a little help from my friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 2014, immediately after the events of chapter 11.  
> Jimmy learns that sometimes, spur-of-the-moment decisions make everything worse. And has even more reasons to loathe himself.  
> And an increasingly close friend starts to help Ali out of his spiral.

The sunlight assaults Jimmy like a particularly persistent crowd of photographers. Groaning, he presses his eyes shut again. Nausea seems to have taken over his body. Followed by a sharp stabbing pain in his forehead. _I’ve overdone it, yesterday. I really should have said no to that fifth glass._

Jimmy rolls on his back as slowly as he can. Lies motionless for a while until the urge to throw up subsides a bit. Until he – awkwardly, inevitably, starts to remember.

Carefully, he opens his eyes. Sees a lanky blonde figure, half hidden under the blanket (a miracle, seriously, that this blanket was big enough for his 6 foot 7), but very definitely in his bed. Jimmy’s bed.

_Damn it. This was not a dream._

Jimmy has to stifle another groan as images from last night flash before his mind’s eye. Stuart, smiling half in disbelief and half in joy, pulling him in for a kiss. Jimmy’s own hand, slipping below Stuart’s pullover, touching the smooth warm skin, feeling goose bumps. Their bodies pressed together on the couch. Hungry, eager kisses.

It was Jimmy’s idea. Jimmy’s stupid, unbelievably idiotic idea.

It felt good, last night. It was good. Just as he expected it would be (he did think about it, before. No use denying it to himself).

But now, in the cold and too harsh light of day – it has made everything worse. It was no help at all.

Because now, Jimmy remembers everything else that happened yesterday.

And the pain, the lingering, deep-seated pain, is back. The immense regret.

Sighing deeply, he stretches out one hand until he can touch Stuart’s arm. Says, as gently as possible, “wake up, Stu. We should talk.”

“Hm?” Stuart rolls onto his left side and yawns. Blinks, stretches and reaches for Jimmy’s hand. “Morning, mate. Head’s killing me.” He yawns again.

Jimmy shifts position so he can look at Stuart. “So, listen … about last night.” _This is hard._

“What about it?” A brief smile followed by a wince. “I really need a painkiller. Want one too?”

Jimmy grits his teeth in frustration. “Not now, thanks. I … I just don’t want to lead you on. Or give you any wrong ideas. Last night was … it was good. Really good. But … that was it.”

“Wait a second.” Stuart, not without effort, pushes himself into an upright position. Fixes his eyes on Jimmy. “What do you think I was doing?”

“What were you doing?” Jimmy sits up as well.

“Trying to look after a friend!” That was a little bit harsher than Stuart intended. “You just made it sound like I’d planned this!”

“Have you?” Jimmy feels a familiar heat pooling in his cheeks. “You immediately went for it when I asked.”

“But you asked! First! Were you …? I don’t know what exactly happened to you yesterday but … were you using me to get it out of your system? Whatever it was? Was I just a means to your end?” Stuart gets up – as slowly as he can because the room seems to have decided to spin. Leans his head against the wall. Bites his lip. There is an inexplicable lump at the back of his throat.

“Maybe you were.” Jimmy says quietly. Angrily. Before he can stop himself. Climbs out of bed. Looks for his socks.

Stuart meets his eyes, clearly struggling with too many emotions at the same time. “Wow.”

“What.” Jimmy snaps. “I haven’t got all day.”

“I never …” Stuart stumbles, looks at his feet. Collects himself. “I never knew you were such an asshole.”

Jimmy clenches his fists. “You obviously didn’t pay any attention around me these past eight years.” _I just proved it to myself, yesterday evening._ And that thought is enough to make him almost lose it.

“So, this is your excuse?” Stuart puts his underpants back on and stares Jimmy down. “No, seriously. Let me get this straight. You … you ask me if you can kiss me, we have sex, I stay the night and the following morning you try to pin all the blame on me because that’s just who you are?”

“Sorry to burst your bubble. Yes.” Jimmy says with a sarcastic laugh.

“You are disgusting.”

“Catching on fast, are you.” Jimmy hisses while he slips his pullover back on.

“Come again?” Stuart is on the verge of exploding.

“You heard me loud and clear.” Rage is cursing through Jimmy like lava. He is shaking, fighting the urge to throw something at Stuart. Even though, deep down, he knows Stuart was right.

“I should have left you alone last night.” Stuart adjusts his pullover.

“Perhaps you should have. Out.” Jimmy says through gritted teeth.

“Are you kicking me out?” Stuart snorts.

“Are you being obtuse? Yes. GO.” Jimmy closes his belt.

“Fuck you.” Stuart gives Jimmy the finger, turns on the heels and leaves the room. Slams the door.

For a while, the only sound in the house is the sound of Stuart’s footsteps as he storms downstairs. Followed by the front door closing with an even louder bang.

And everything is quiet.

 

The insistent buzz of his phone cuts through Ali’s deep (and thankfully, nightmare-free) sleep. Apparently, he did not really switch it off last night.

He rubs his eyes and glances at the screen.

_Six-thirty. I should have known. For us, it’s always six-thirty._

Yawning widely, he answers the call. “Yes?”

A quiet curse. “Bloody handsfree system. Stay in, will you? .... Erm. Hi. Morning. Sorry. I know you don’t like phone calls. I … well, I got lost. A bit. So, I’m gonna be half an hour late. Sorry about that. But …” and Ali can just about see Joe’s grin, “I got us breakfast.”

“Our usual?” And Ali knows Joe heard him smile.

“Get a move on! The light’s just gone green! Whoops. Yes, our usual.” Joe laughs. “Any snow down there?” “Yes.”

“Brilliant. See you soon! And sorry for calling.”

“Don’t worry.”

Ali hangs up. Stretches.

The memories of yesterday, of last night, are still fresh. And raw.

But – and he really doesn’t know where that came from – the panic, the overwhelming sadness, the regret, everything is starting to feel a bit lighter, this morning. They’re still there, but they have taken a back seat to an entirely new emotion.

An unfamiliar emotion, this year.

Anticipation. And something he would almost describe as happiness.

He’s really looking forward to today. Seriously. To an entire day just with Joe (he did say he didn’t have any plans, did he?).

Go for a walk in the forest (Joe will no doubt enjoy his favourite track), train a bit in the cellar, watch something funny on TV, listen to music (such an important part of their friendship, really), chat, laugh (impossible not to laugh when you spend any time in Joe’s company), take his mind off things.

_Sounds like a perfect day._

Smiling to himself, Ali gets up, opens the window.

It is another beautiful winter morning. Quite chilly, no doubt. And absolutely silent. The sun must have risen quite recently, the sky is still giving off a faint orange glow. _My favourite season._

Briefly, unbidden and definitely unwelcome, his thoughts wander back to Jimmy. What is he doing, over in Manchester? Did he manage to get any sleep, last night? Is he regretting their argument? Wondering how he could patch things up again, this time? (Because, if there’s any way they can come back from this, Jimmy has to make the first move. It was his idiocy that started it all. Ali does not share the blame. Not this time. He was simply pointing out a fact.)

Ali shakes his head and steps into the shower. Enjoys the warm water running down his back, waking him up properly. Lets his mind wander – as he always does in the morning.

Only gets out when he feels goose bumps on his arms. Slips on a pullover and comfortable trousers. _I’m home. Nobody’s going to see me. Or rather – he won’t care._ Runs a hand through his hair, squints at himself in the mirror. _You wouldn’t notice the kind of day I had, yesterday. I’ve really become good at keeping my poker face._

(“Joe will see right through it,” a voice at the back of his mind points out.)

 

As soon as Ali has finished that thought, the sound of a parking car breaks through the silence. Followed by a door closing, footsteps and something that almost sounds like a suitcase being dragged over the footpath in Ali’s front garden. _Just what exactly did you mean by “breakfast”?_

Ali laughs and goes downstairs to let his friend in.

“Morning.” Joe is slightly flushed from the cold. Smiling from one ear to the other, he holds Ali’s gaze for a few seconds. _We’ve got our own kind of smile, this year. A really special one._

 “I … how are you? Stupid question, I know.” Joe says quietly.

“I’ve been better.” Ali admits with a shrug. Feels an almost identical smile to Joe’s sneak on his face. “Glad you’re here.”

“I’m here. I always am.” Joe whispers and wraps his arms around Ali.

Doesn’t say a word. Just holds him, for a little while.

Ali closes his eyes. It is far from their first hug (Joe’s very unapologetic when it comes to showing his affection). But something about this feels different, today.

“Thanks.” he says softly.

Is met with a slightly shy grin. “So – breakfast?”

“Absolutely.” _Well, I hardly ate anything yesterday._

Joe hangs up his hat and coat and follows Ali indoors, dragging his suitcase behind him.

Takes in everything he can see, trying not to look too curious.

Photos – of plants, birds, scenery, the occasional cricket ground, a few selfies with Jimmy, Swanny, Andy and Fred, an elderly couple (Ali’s parents, no doubt) and at least fifteen different snapshots of the same dog – line the walls. The rooms look rather new, but give off a comfortable, lived-in atmosphere. Almost every window offers a view of the small, but well-kept garden.

_Just as I imagined his house. Suits him._

“Lovely place.” Joe tells Ali and bends down to take out a brown paper bag from his suitcase. “Anyway, I managed to get everything. So, my unplanned detour was good for something, I guess.” He opens the bag and shows its contents to Ali. “I even found the same muffins we had in Southampton.”

There is a brief silence as both of them think back to that morning. That reception.

“Brilliant, thanks.” Ali tries to ignore the shiver that just ran down his spine and puts the kettle on. “Milk, no sugar?” “You know me.” Joe grins and arranges their breakfast on a plate.

They carry everything over to a small table, wait until their tea has finished brewing (exactly four minutes, at least according to the trial they ran this summer). Make themselves comfortable. Split the muffins and apples.

Eat. Don’t talk for a while. Sneak an occasional glance around the table, meet each other’s eyes, smile, look away again (which happens automatically, these days). Just enjoy each other’s company.

 

“So,” Ali asks Joe while they carry the dishes back to the kitchen, feeling pleasantly full and warmed-up, “what’s in that suitcase?” “I didn’t know if there’s anything you wanted to do in particular. So, I just packed everything I could find. A couple of DVDs, my UNO cards, a ball, some CDs … just figured we’ll think of something.” Joe explains and opens the zipper. “I’m up for anything, really.”

_Anything that helps you feel better,_ hangs in the air between them.

“Fancy going for a walk? I’d like to show you around a bit. The forest behind the house is really exceptionally pretty, this time of year.” Ali suggests.

“Sounds good.” Joe agrees. _You’re really the only person that gets my love for this season._

 

They leave the suitcase in the living room, wrap up warm and step out into the icy winter sun.

“After you.” Joe grins and follows Ali, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. Listens to the fresh snow crunching underneath his feet, feels a light breeze stinging his cheeks.

The path – barely visible under the thick icy blanket faintly glittering in the sun – meanders past a couple of old apple trees and leads slightly uphill into a maze of fir trees and shrubbery. One of those rare forests that have been allowed to grow just as nature intended. A little safe haven.

Ali and Joe wander along, take in the scenery. It is almost completely quiet except for the gurgling of a small brook, unperturbed by the temperatures. A few birds circle overhead on the light blue sky.

“I get why you love this place.” Joe says while they take a short break on top of the hill. “Of course, I knew you would.” Ali replies fondly before he can stop himself.  “I mean … that’s one of the main reasons I bought this house last year. I grew up on a farm, I just need to be close to nature. I’ve been here often. Whenever something happened. Or any time I need to really think about things.”

“I’ve got a place like that up in Sheffield.” Joe says and looks for the photo on his phone. “You do? You never told me.” “Well, we never really talk about stuff like that, do we?” Joe hands his phone over to Ali. “I came across this little pond last year when we had that short break before the 4th Ashes test. Spent almost all morning there, watching the ducks and reading. I haven’t tried it out, but I think this bush could be a wild hazelnut.” “It looks like one, true.” Ali says after he carefully examines the photo.  “And Joe?” “Yes?” Joe looks at Ali curiously.

Ali meets Joe’s eyes. “I … You were right. We never really talk about that stuff.” he admits quietly.

“But you want us to?” Joe asks with a warm smile.

Ali nods. _I do. I never realised I want to._

Matches Joe’s smile. Looks at his watch. “Want to head back? I haven’t exactly had time to do my shopping” – _and I definitely don’t want to, today –_ “but there’s plenty of leftovers in the freezer.”

“We’ll find something, don’t worry.” Joe stuffs his hands back in his pockets.  Whistling to himself, he climbs down the hill. Stops as he reaches the brook, picks up a small round flat stone. “Look at this one. Quite beautiful, don’t you think?” He stretches out his right hand.

The stone is almost completely black but for a few silver glittering inclusions.

Ali gives it a closer look. “Yes, it’s quite pretty.”

“Want it?” Joe asks and presses it into Ali’s hand without waiting for an answer. “It could be a sort of good-luck charm. If you’re into that kind of stuff.”

Ali slips the black stone into his jeans. “Thanks. I really need one.” he laughs quietly. “But I’ll need to find one for you as well. Otherwise this doesn’t work. ““Never knew you were superstitious.” Joe grins. “Who isn’t?” Ali replies and laughs again. _I love the way I’m around you. So completely at ease._

Just before they reach the garden again, Ali finds a white pebble for Joe. “I’ll hang onto it.” Joe promises and sticks it into his sleeve pocket. _And nobody else will know._

They hang up their jackets, put the hats and gloves on the radiator to dry. Switch the kettle back on, prepare two fresh cups of tea that should help them warm up. “So, anything in particular you fancy having for lunch?” Joe busies himself with his suitcase again. “It’s just … I thought we could have pizza in the evening. So, I brought some ready-made pastry and veggies.” he explains and drops a shopping bag on the counter.

“Good idea.” Ali is already looking through his pantry. “Spaghetti Carbonara okay?” “Sure.”

While the sauce warms up in the microwave, Joe looks after the pasta bubbling away on the stove. Gives the pot an occasional stir – and- without thinking, because it’s become a sort of routine for him – sings quietly to himself. Only stops when he notices Ali watching him.

“What’s that?” “What’s what?” “That song you were singing. Sounded really good.”

Joe flushes. “I didn’t even know I was. Force of habit.”

“No need to be embarrassed. You have quite a good voice. And I should know.” Ali pats Joe’s shoulder. “So, tell me. Because it sounded sort of familiar.”

“Hang on a second.” Joe looks at the kitchen timer – still three minutes – and fetches his phone. Looks through his files. “There you go. Song’s called “My Silver Lining.” I don’t even know why I thought of it, but …” “The title fits.” Ali finishes his sentence. “Come on, play it.”

They lean next to each other on the kitchen counter. Fall silent.

“Something good comes with the bad, a song’s never just sad-

there’s hope, there’s a silver lining.”

Goosebumps on Ali’s forearms. _It’s almost as if that song was written for me. Me and the year I had._

The kitchen timer beeps. Joe drains the pasta and mixes it with the sauce. Musters Ali. “You okay?” “I…” Ali’s voice is slightly hoarse. “I have no idea how you come up with these things, but you just helped me. Unbelievably. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.” “Want the file?” “Please. That goes on our matchday playlist. Ours, I mean.” Ali puts an arm around Joe’s shoulders. “Let’s eat.”

They switch the TV on, flick through the channels until they find a replay of last night’s Premier League games. Watch without great interest, only comment when something happens. Although Ali always briefly looks away whenever the cameras show Burnley vs Spurs. Doesn’t want to let his mind wander down that road, yet. Not when he’s been feeling better for the past couple of hours.

 

A workout in Ali’s gym in the cellar, a few episodes of House, M.D (Joe stops himself from telling Ali just how much House’s sarcasm reminds him of Jimmy. He doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, but it is unusual, not hearing Ali talking about Jimmy for more than an hour. Almost as if something happened, last night.), a thorough dissection of the weekend newspapers while listening to Joe’s favourite indie bands (with the occasional song being joined in). Without either of them noticing, the sun has disappeared behind the forest.

“So, pizza?” Joe asks.

“Sure. I’m definitely hungry again.”

“Just tell me where everything is and stay on the couch.” Joe tells Ali matter-of-factly. “I’ve done this before, plenty of times. Came up with the tomato sauce myself.”

Part of Ali wants to protest – _you don’t have to, you’re my guest, I really should be doing this._ But that’s what happens when you’re around Joe for a while. When he’s really convinced he wants to do something, there’s little to no chance of persuading him otherwise. _The stubbornness you need as a batsman._

So, Ali resigns himself to his fate. Definitely amused, although he can’t shake off the feeling that his kitchen will need a thorough cleaning, afterwards. Settles back on the sofa, finishes reading the paper, only occasionally answers a hurried question from the kitchen.

Has not looked at his phone once, all day. _I know Jimmy when he’s having a strop. Don’t expect anything for the first 24 hours. Until he starts to miss me. And comes up with something nice to apologise._

“Do you, though,” Ali wonders. “Do you really miss me this time, Jim?”

 

Before he can explore that train of thought further, a plate full of pizza appears right under his nose. _Perfect timing._ “Done.” Joe says with a satisfied smirk. “It looks really professional.” Ali nods appreciatively. “Smells nice too.” “Let me know what you think.”

Ali bites off a chunk of his first slice.

“So?” Joe asks interestedly.

“Great combination.” Ali tells him with a smile. “Let me know what’s in that sauce, exactly.”

“That’s a huge compliment, coming from you.” Joe beams and puts down his plate next to Ali. Switches his IPod back on, skips a song. “That’s not a good one, right now.”

While they eat, it starts to snow again.

Thick white flakes dance in front of the windows, barely visible in the increasing darkness.

 

Suddenly, Ali has an idea. One that makes perfect sense.

_Should I really do this,_ he asks himself immediately after he’s finished the thought. _Can I already trust myself to talk about it?_

On the other hand – if there’s anyone whose reaction he doesn’t have to be afraid of, it’s Joe.

Joe, who may have never said it out loud, but who likes Ali exactly the way he is.

Who lets Ali be himself. Always.

 

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Joe asks and breaks Ali’s reverie.

“Sorry?”

“Only, you’ve been looking at me for the past couple of minutes.” Joe explains with a chuckle and pours himself a fresh glass of water.

“Bugger. Well, there … there is something.” Ali swallows. Feels his heart pound.

Joe is silent. Smiles at him in the way only Joe can.

Ali gathers his courage. “Please keep it to yourself.” “I promise.”

“I … well yesterday I found out I … have more feelings for Jimmy than I cared to admit to myself. I’ve fallen for him. Seriously have. And he doesn’t know, obviously. He never will because we … yesterday … we…,” he doesn’t know how long he’s going to be able to keep his voice steady, “we had an argument yesterday. A really bad argument.”

Joe gets up.

 

Ali doesn’t have to say anything else.

The next thing he knows, a cotton sweatshirt is pressed against his face. Arms wrap around his shoulders, hold him tight. Hold him in the single most comforting embrace he had for a while.

It is all he can do not to cry.

Out of sheer relief. Of joy (because he did think Joe would react well, but he never expected this).

A hand slowly strokes Ali’s back.

“Wow. Thanks. That must have taken a lot of courage.” Joe says softly.  Ali nods. Doesn’t trust himself to speak right now.

Joe helps Ali up, leads him over to the couch, arm still around Ali’s shoulders. “I’ll just put in another DVD.” He briefly rummages through his suitcase. Wonders how different his voice just sounded. _Affectionate. I guess that’s the word._ He switches the DVD player back on, presses “play.”

Settles back on the couch and holds out his arm again.

Without thinking twice, Ali shifts closer. Lets his head rest on Joe’s shoulder. Leans against his arm. _I have no words. No words to describe just how much I was longing for this. Not you. Okay, maybe you as well. But this. This means the world to me._

_I am not alone._

 

After a while (hours?) Ali realises the weight on his left shoulder has been increasing steadily.

Turns his head and notices, to his surprise, that Joe has fallen asleep, leaning into Ali’s side, obviously very comfortable. Completely at ease. _I don’t think anyone has seen you like that for a while._

Ali takes a moment to study Joe’s face. A familiar face. But it feels like the first time he really sees it.

Full of tiny freckles, an odd-shaped faint scar on the ridge of his nose, creases around his eyes that will eventually become laughter lines. _No surprise here. You already spend most of the day laughing._

There's just a hint of a smile on his friend's sleeping features. _What are you dreaming about_ , Ali wonders.

Gently, he shakes Joe's arm.

 

Joe stirs, yawns widely. “Hm? Oh.” A faint blush on his cheeks.

“Time for bed.” Ali says gently. His arm feels like it will go to sleep on its own any minute.

Looks Joe directly into the eyes (were they actually blue-green all along? Ali never noticed before).

Joe returns his gaze.

Lets his right hand wander until he can take Ali’s hand.

The music of the DVD menu fades into the background. Everything around them seems to disappear.

For a brief moment, Ali and Joe just sit there.

Look at each other.

Hold hands.

Smile.

_What is going on?_

A more than slightly violent sneeze from Ali breaks the moment (if it even was one).

They simultaneously start to laugh.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to be so loud.” Ali says and blows his nose. “That was worthy of Ian!” Joe pokes Ali’s ribs. “Oh definitely. Remember that one time he made Peter jump on the plane? On our way to Bangladesh?” Ali pokes Joe back and grins.

“That’s our Belly.” Joe chuckles and gets up. “Right, I’d better …”

“No.  Definitely not in this snow. You can sleep here, if you want. I’ll fetch you a blanket and a pillow.” Ali interrupts him.

“Thanks.” Joe smiles at him. “Bathroom’s where, exactly?”

“Down the corridor, first on the right. Use one of the toothbrushes in the cupboard, if you want.”

 

Ali makes Joe a comfortable bed on the couch and goes upstairs to get changed and ready for bed.

Has no idea what happened – or did not happen – before. Doesn’t want to know, if he’s honest.

_We have something. Something unique. That’s all I need to know._

Ali smiles to himself and quickly goes back down to the living room.

 

Finds Joe stretched out under the blanket, phone in his hand, busy texting someone.

“I just wanted to say good night.” Ali says softly.

Joe’s face suddenly almost resembles a tomato. “I … good night.” he replies with a sheepish grin.

“Who were you texting? You know you can always tell me.” Ali shoots him a supportive look.

“You…” Joe briefly struggles with himself. Settles eventually for “you know him. let’s leave it at that.” Can’t keep a self-conscious smile off his face.

_Him?_ “Okay?” Ali cocks an eyebrow and squeezes Joe’s shoulder. “Anyway, sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You too.” Joe returns his smile.

“And … thanks. For today.”

“No need.”

 

Ali goes back up to his bedroom, lies down, makes himself comfortable.

Switches the light off.

Before he falls asleep, his mind replays the song they were listening to while they were waiting for the pasta this afternoon.

“There’s hope, there’s a silver lining.”

_I guess there’s really one._

_With a friend like Joe._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DKL4X0PZz7M  
> just captures the mood for this chapter perfectly.


	13. Botham's record

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> West Indies vs England, April 2015, Antigua.  
> What better place for a new start, as an overdue record is broken - in a way that neither Ali nor Jimmy would have dreamed about before that test match began.

“Terminal 3!”

The announcement is loud enough for Ali to hear. Even though he is wearing his brand-new headphones and has the volume on his iPod almost turned up to maximum.

This playlist – put together with Joe’s help, last week – has turned out to be as helpful as he hoped. Although Ali still doesn’t know how Joe came up with “fuck it” as title (he dodged the question with a sheepish emoji and did not reply). Nevertheless, the title fits. It has proved to be a perfect distraction.

Ali gets up, grabs his kitbag and his backpack and gets in line for the exit.

He does look forward to the West Indies. The weather in the Caribbean is particularly nice in early spring. Ideal for a swim before breakfast. When there are hardly any people on the beach. Is Joe going to join him for one? At some point during the tour?

Smiling, Ali adjusts the small key charm (“oh come on, that is an Essex eagle,” Joe insisted vehemently) on his backpack. _Looking forward to seeing you in about 10 minutes._

But, he remembers, as he joins the throng of passengers on the escalator, he won’t just be seeing Joe again. Or Peter. And his boys (he is starting to get curious about Mark Wood. Wonders if he’s really as fast as an excited Ben told him on WhatsApp after the squad announcement).

Today is the first time he’ll see Jimmy.

The first time since their return from Sri Lanka.

And that horrible evening.

The thought is enough to make everything inside Ali cramp up.

Not only because it is always awkward to be with Jimmy after they had an argument (until he eventually gets that unbelievably cute/sheepish smile and mumbles something that sounds like “’m sorry”).

No, his nerves have an entirely different reason, today.

It’s the first time he’ll be with Jimmy since his realisation.

About his feelings for his best friend.

Which, Ali realises as he enters Terminal 3 and looks around the busy, colourful mass of passengers, trying to find their meeting spot (seriously, two years into the job, he really should know), have not changed at all. In fact, the sheer number of butterflies whirling around his belly tells him his feelings – with all related problems – have only gotten worse.

_He must not know. He can never know._

While Ali cranes his neck to look for their flight on the noticeboard – 4:50 pm, still plenty of time – a hand, out of nowhere, pulls his cap from his head. “Wotcher, Chef.” a cheerful voice, definitely Northern, but with faint traces of a New Zealand accent, says somewhere above his right ear.

Half-startled, half-amused, Ali whirls around. “Ben. Should have known.”

They shake hands. “How’ve you been?” Ben asks while they set off together (he obviously knows where he’s supposed to go). “Quite okay. Spent a lot of time with Graham in Chelmsford, think I know what I need to do.” Ali says with a shrug and a faint smile. “And…?” _I know I need to tread carefully. I can just about imagine how hurt the lads still are about the World Cup. I would be._

He does not need to finish the sentence. Ben understood him perfectly. Shoots him a grateful look. “Got over it, more or less. It’s been a shit couple of weeks. But, life goes on.” he says and suddenly stops. A wide grin spreads over his face. “Woody!”

With Ali’s cap still on his head (where it sits rather lopsidedly), Ben runs off to hug an unfamiliar young man with brown hair, wearing an England tracksuit and that slightly self-conscious look that always gives away a newcomer. A look Ali instantly recognises.

He waits for Ben and the new guy – of course, that’s Mark Wood, Ali met him at the PCA awards last autumn - to join him. Manages a smile that is – to his surprise – almost completely genuine.

“Hi, Mark.” Ali says and holds his hand out. Tries not to wince as Mark shakes his hand enthusiastically. “Hi. Great to be a part of the team, I’ve been waiting for ages for this.” he tells Ali with a wide smile. “Don’t worry, we’re going to make you feel welcome.” Ali replies. “I’ve heard a lot of interesting things about you, mostly from Ben. Looking forward to seeing you play.”

“You won’t be disappointed.” Mark grins. “Did you bring my cards, Stokesy?”

“Sure. It’s not like you texted me about them sixteen times since Sunday.” Ben rolls his eyes and shoulders his backpack. “Right, Woody, let’s go meet the others.”

“ _Ben._ ”

“Yes, captain?” (Ali tries not to grin. Two and a half years of practice and his “captain voice” always does the trick. Always _._ )

“ _Would you be so kind as to give me back my cap?”_ Ben laughs and takes it off, hands it to Ali.

 

A small group is already waiting for Ali, Ben and Mark at their usual meeting spot. Deep in conversation – and obviously laughing at something, no surprise with these lads – but they turn around as they recognise their captain.

And if Ali had any apprehensions about meeting everyone again, for the first time since the disaster in Sri Lanka and their short, too short, World Cup campaign, they are forgotten within seconds.

Because everyone seems genuinely happy to see him.

High-fives, a quite painful fist-bump with Adil, polite (genuinely interested) inquiries how he’s been, what he has been doing since December. If he’s looking forward to being back out there, because who isn’t excited at the prospect of a few weeks’ cricket in the Caribbean and it is an Ashes year.

Ali goes from one to the other, chats a little bit with everyone, has a look at photos of new houses, pets and family members (and a few very select ones from the World Cup). Makes his usual golf plans with Stuart and Ben. Starts to feel at ease in a way he hasn’t since last summer. _I’m home. With my lads. Doing what I love. For as long as they let me._

“Are we still waiting for anyone?” Gary asks.

“Let me check.” Ali casts an eye around the group. Tries not to let his thoughts show on his face. _Where is he, for god’s sake? It’s not like him to be late._

The next thing Ali knows, there is a pair of arms around his shoulders and he’s being hugged so enthusiastically it almost knocks him off his feet.

“Missed you.” Joe beams at him and gives Ali a squeeze. “You okay?” he adds quietly.

“Missed you too.” Ali returns the hug with a fond smile. “I’m alright, thanks.” he whispers.

Joe nods. Shoots him a look – “you can always come to me, remember” – and goes to say hi to the rest of the team. Seems – as usual – excited to see everyone again. _And it’s not an act, for you._

“When do we need to go?” Adil asks Ali. Ali looks at his watch. “We’ve still got about 15 minutes. Why?” “I’d like to call home before we get on the plane. It’s my first tour after all.” Adil explains. “Sure, off you go.” Ali tells him.

He’s about to answer Stuart’s question – “do you have the first Cormoran Strike novel with you and if so, can I borrow it on the plane?” – when Joe catches his eye.

Ali follows Joe’s nod with his eyes.

Until now, he thought that was a cliché.

But as he watches a figure in a dark blue tracksuit approach, Ali knows his heart really skipped a beat.

Carrying his usual slightly grumpy look, messy short hair (he must have been at the hairdresser’s yesterday, he’s looking more effortlessly handsome than ever) and a battered old blue backpack. Which is still (it’s almost three years) prominently decorated with that gold-framed pin with the Lancashire red rose that Ali (among other things) gave him for his 30th birthday.

_And what did I get for my 30 th, last December? A bloody mailbox message at 11 pm. “Happy birthday, I haven’t forgotten, in case you were wondering.”_

_Why do you have to be such a piece of work, Jimmy._

“And why,” Ali realises as he watches Jimmy grin at Ben and Ian and high-five with them, “why on earth do you have to be so unbelievably gorgeous at the same time.”

Annoyed at himself, he crosses and uncrosses his arms. Hopes not to attract the others’ attention, while he feels a blush creeping on his cheeks and his heart pound against his ribcage.

_What on earth do I say to him? I … wait a second. That was weird._

Over the past nine years, Stuart and Jimmy have become – in a way – just as close friends as Ali and Jimmy. They may have started off completely on the wrong foot (Ali remembers constant bickering and Jimmy complaining loudly to Swanny whenever Stuart wasn’t around to hear it), but in their own way, they have grown close to each other. Have formed quite a destructive partnership. And their own little in-jokes. Complete with, in recent months, a very elaborate and definitely odd handshake.

So, why exactly did Stuart barely acknowledge Jimmy as Jimmy walked past? Only mumbled “hi” and quickly turned around to continue his chat with CJ?

And for that matter, what was that look on Jimmy’s face just now? Like he was almost furious with himself? Or really embarrassed about something?

Judging by the mumbling breaking out around Ali, everyone else picked up on it as well. And seems to be as puzzled about it as he is.

 _Just brilliant,_ Ali sighs to himself. _As if I didn’t have enough to worry about before this series began. Now 50% of my bowling attack aren’t talking to each other. Since when does being captain require a psychology degree? Because this won’t be resolved with a simple “get over it.” Not while I’m not exactly talking to … oh._

Jimmy has stopped half a metre away from Ali. Keeps trying to look at him and then quickly glancing down at his shoes. His ears have turned red and he keeps scratching his neck. As he always does when he’s really uncomfortable. _And so you should be._

“Hi.” That was barely above a whisper.

“Hi.” Ali’s voice – annoyingly – matches Jimmy’s. He feels as if he’s forgotten how to breathe properly.

“Erm…” Jimmy starts. Falters. Flushes.

“Yes?” Ali asks. Mildly curious, despite it all. His heart keeps racing. _What am I going to say? What can I say really? Why does it have to be me, this time? It was your bloody fault after all._

A voice behind them saves both Ali and Jimmy from further embarrassment.

 “Ali? Adil’s come back. I think we should head for the gate.”

With an immensely grateful smile, Ali turns to Joe. _You just saved me, you know?_

Joe pats his shoulder. “Always.” he says quietly.

“Right, guys, off we go.” Ali shoulders his backpack.

The team sets off on another journey.

Another tour. Another chance to show what they really can do.

 

Eight and a half hours later. A mostly uneventful flight save for a quiet argument between Stuart and Jimmy (that, as usual, seemed to be centred around Jimmy’s irritation at Stuart’s snoring, but – at least for Mark, Ian and CJ, sitting in the row behind them – carried a bit more weight than usual).

Stunning views of the azure Caribbean sea greet them as the plane descends towards VC Bird airport. Ali feels his spirits lift. As usual. Smiles as he notices Joe’s wide-eyed look. “Yes, they’re paying us to play cricket on this island.” he laughs and puts an arm around Joe’s shoulders (and was it just him, or could he hear a distinct annoyed growl from across the aisle?). “Wow. Can’t wait.” Joe grins and leans against Ali’s arm. “Are we going for a swim tomorrow? Water looks way too inviting not to.”

“Stop reading my mind.” Ali chuckles. “I was about to ask you if you wanted to.” “Six-thirty?” Joe says with a wink.

“Always, six-thirty.” Ali gives Joe’s shoulders a brief squeeze. _How can you not enjoy this? Us. The way we are when nobody else is watching us._

The plane comes to a shuddering halt on the tarmac.

“Welcome to Antigua, Mark.” Ian pokes Mark in the ribs. “But don’t relax too much. They really know and love their cricket over here.” “I know. It’s just – I just had one of these “I really made it” moments.” Mark explains beaming from one ear to the other. “Haven’t we all.” Ian agrees.

 

A bus is already waiting for them on the other side of the airport building. On the short drive to their hotel, the sun sets over the island, bathing everything in a soft warm orange light.

Even Jimmy smiles as they carry their gear into the resort, check everything in and move into their rooms.

Antigua. One of his most favourite places on the planet. Such a stunning country, great food, fantastically relaxed people. A beautiful location for a Test match.

And the place where everything began. Almost exactly nine years ago.

The plane journey that would change his life (such a cliché, but it fits).

What better place for a new start? An overdue reconciliation (not that he hasn’t tried, since December. Must have close to ninety un-sent texts on his phone and have gone through several sheets of paper in his attempts to write a letter to Ali. Which always, for _fuck’s sake_ , turned into love letters. Which he _of course_ did not send. Because that would have spelled the end of their friendship)?

Sighing to himself, Jimmy slips on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Looks at himself in the mirror. _First things first, though. Stuart. I owe him an apology. If he even wants to listen to me._

Jimmy takes a couple of deep breaths, puts his keycard in his pocket and leaves his room.

Goes downstairs to the lobby.

Quickly looks away as he hears Ali’s laugh (and does he love that sound) from the direction of the pool table. Of course he’s playing with Jonathan, Ian and _Joe_. Seems to spend every bloody minute with that Yorkshire boy, these days. Almost as if there was a reason for it. _Something you’re not telling me?_

Gritting his teeth and fighting an intense wave of jealousy, Jimmy steps out of the hotel into a balmy Caribbean night. Briefly stops to smell the pleasantly salty air, looks around the almost pitch-dark bay.

Faint guitar music drifts over from the bar on the other side of the road.

And a lanky figure in jeans and a shirt sits on one of the sunbeds, engrossed in something on his phone. Startles as Jimmy comes closer, stoops down to look him in the eyes. “Jim.”

“Stu.” Jimmy bites his lower lip.

“I… sorry for snapping at you earlier.” Stuart squirms uncomfortably.

“I think we should talk.” Jimmy says in a hoarse voice. _I really used you. I hurt you. And I miss you._

 “Yes. Let’s go for a walk.”

 

The impromptu pool competition ends with a comfortable win for Jonathan. The first time any of his teammates have seen him smile for a good while. A welcome sight. “Good to have you back with us, Trotty.” Ian tells him as he returns from the hotel bar with two drinks. “Good to be back.” Jonathan agrees and they clink glasses. “So, what else did I miss?”

“I’ll give you a quick update. And … Ali?”

“He already left. Said he wants to go down to the sea.” Jonathan replies and settles back in his armchair.

 

 

Ali sits under a palm tree next to the pool. Very much in two minds about everything and in desperate need to really think things through. How exactly he should approach Jimmy. Or react when Jimmy approaches him, rather. Where they can go from here, without Jimmy ever finding out just what Ali really thinks of him. How they can patch things up, again.

_Because you’re such an important part of my life. No matter how much you’re an ill-tempered grumpy egoistic emotionally challenged little git._

Ali has almost plucked up enough courage to go look for Jimmy when he hears two voices coming closer. Laughing voices. Sharing a joke. Comfortably close to each other. Whoever they …

The figures belonging to the voices become visible in the tangerine light of the lanterns lining the path down to the peach.

And Ali freezes on the spot.

Stuart and Jimmy. Heads close together, Stuart’s arm around Jimmy’s shoulders. Laughing – both of them - , smiling at each other. In that effortless, intimate way that can only mean one thing.

Ali can’t focus anymore.

Jealous fury boils in his stomach. _Hands off, Stuart._ It is all he can do not to yell. To jump up, run towards them, force them apart. Let Stuart know what he really thinks. And Jimmy with him.

And – potentially – ruin everything.

Despite himself, Ali forces himself to watch them a bit longer. Try to pick up what they’re talking about.

“So, you’re playing with me tomorrow afternoon?” Jimmy asks and Stuart nods. Smiles again. Says something Ali can’t quite make out.

_Of course. Why am I even surprised? I should have known it was Stuart. It probably always was Stuart._

The thought is a leaden weight on Ali’s shoulders. A lump forms in his throat.

_I have no idea how long this has been going on. But it makes perfect sense. It has to. Jimmy needs a guy who really gets him. Who can make him laugh. Not burden him with his own insecurities. Who better than his bowling partner? His second-in-command, really?_

Sobs threaten to break out of Ali. He swallows hard, forces himself to make no sound.

_At least you’re happy, Jim._

Before Ali knows what he’s doing, he gets up from the sunbed he’s been sitting on. With enough force to startle everyone around him. Doesn’t look where he’s going, just blindly stumbles off back to the hotel building. _I need to find him. I need to talk._

Stops in front of Joe’s room where he can hear muffled laughter and chatter.

Collects himself. Knocks at the door. Listens.

"Gary, do try and keep up, will you?" Joe sounds exasperated and amused. As usual.

"Sorry. So.." "Yes, you need to draw four cards." Joe explains and rolls his eyes at Ben.

“Someone just knocked, didn’t they?” Ben asks. “I think so. I’ll have a look.” Joe puts his cards on the table and crosses the room. _I think I know who that could be._

Joe opens the door. “Hi. Want to join…” His eyes meet Ali's. _You look like you’ve seen a ghost._

"What's up? Did something happen?" His expression seems to say.

Ali nods. Doesn't want to speak right now.

Joe turns back to the room.  "Lads - I'm out. I've got... well there's stuff I need to do. Urgent stuff.” He doesn't wait for Ben’s slightly puzzled question. Grabs his key card, pulls on a jacket and closes the door behind him.

Looks around the corridor. They are alone.

“What's wrong?" he asks in a gentle, concerned voice.

It is all Ali can do not to break down. "Jimmy." He manages.  "Shit." Joe moves a bit closer to Ali.

"Come with me." he offers and Ali accepts with a slight nod.

Together, they cross the hotel gardens, head for the beach. Find a comfortable looking deserted red canopy swing overlooking the little bay. Take off their shoes, sit down, stretch their feet out on the soft cushions.

“Want to talk about it?” Joe asks softly. “Just tell me whatever’s going on and I’ll see if I can help.”

Ali relaxes. Almost manages a smile. Leans his head against Joe’s shoulder as Joe puts an arm around him. Breathes in and out a couple of times until he is sure he can talk without breaking down.

“I … I just saw something.”

 

Afterwards, neither Ali nor Joe can recall how many hours they spent on the beach, sitting next to each other on the canopy swing, watching the distant lights of fishing boats on the horizon. Watching the glittering blanket of stars stretching over their heads, trying to make out constellations and planets.

All they can say is – it was one of the best conversations they ever had with each other. In some ways, an overdue chat. That brought them even closer together. In which they learned some new things about each other, made plans, found ways to resolve issues around the team that they’d both, as it turned out, been worried about for a while. Reassured each other. Calmed each other down. Made each other laugh (as usual).

An incredibly important help for Ali. _I need to do something for Joe, in return. I’ll figure something out,_ he resolves as he gets ready for bed, feeling the exhaustion of their long-distance flight finally catching up with him. _And in the morning – or over the next couple of weeks – I’ll find a way to get Jimmy back. As my best friend. At least._ Smiling to himself, he falls asleep.

With the warm-up matches out of the way, excitement in the England camp begins to build in earnest. The usual good, helpful anticipation ahead of the first Test of the year. A fresh start, an occasion to try out a few new tactics, get everyone firing ahead of the summer (as much as Ali tries to force himself not to think about the Ashes just yet).

But this time, this morning, as they head to the stadium with Jonathan’s “roadtrip CD” blasting out of the loudspeakers in the bus, there’s an added buzz around the team.

It is Jimmy’s – incredible – 100th test.

And he’s only three wickets away from passing a record that every England bowler has coveted since the 90s. Sir Ian Botham’s record. 383 wickets. A magical figure.

Although Jimmy tries to give off his best impression of “stop making such a fuss about it” (and ends up snapping at CJ as he tries to ask him during their warm-up on the first day), Ali can’t help but wonder just how desperately he is trying to distract himself. Wants to take Jimmy aside for a quick chat. Calm him down. Tell him to “do what you always do and it will happen.” Just as he’s done for the past nine years.

But they are not quite there again. Sure, Jimmy does actually talk to him again since Monday. But a certain awkwardness, a shyness, remains in their interactions. Makes them both equally uncomfortable, makes every laugh, every joke, every attempt to play it cool, feel forced.

“We’re both too stubborn for our own good.” Ali thinks with a rueful smile and adjusts his blazer, ready for the toss. “Anyway, no time to worry about it now. I’ve got a job to do.”

 

And over the next four and a half days, Ali does his job well. So well, in fact, that he can’t stop himself from joining in with Mark’s whistle – “Yellow submarine”, of all songs – as they get into the lunch queue on the fifth day. As he looks back over the first innings, realises he’s got everything right, this time. Realises his fielding set-ups, his tactical decisions, paid off beautifully (his own batting still remains patchy but he’s starting to feel the edge coming back again). That they’re only four wickets short of an overdue victory.

_You told me to be brave, Graham. I listened. And I think I know what you meant._

He can’t wait to talk to his old mentor tonight.

And – Ali looks ahead to Jimmy, chatting to Ben while he picks up a tuna wrap and a bottle of water – the chance of something else, something historic, happening within the next couple of hours, is suddenly almost palpable. Because (and Ali is sure only he’s really picked up on it), Jimmy, for the first time in some time, is absolutely on song, this April afternoon.

There’s a fascinating aura (if you believe in that kind of stuff) around Jimmy, when he’s in that state. That state in which you are absolutely compelled to watch every single ball he bowls. Compelled to keep your own excitement under control because every delivery carries a potential wicket threat (and the last thing you want is being on the receiving end of one of Jimmy’s famous strops when you drop an easy catch off him).

 _The most attractive thing I’ve seen on a cricket field,_ Ali thinks and has to hide his blush.

Meets Jimmy’s eyes before they head back out after lunch.

And for the first time since Sri Lanka, Jimmy returns Ali’s smile.

 _I need to talk to him tonight,_ Jimmy resolves while he goes through his warm-up.

_First things first, though. Keep patient._

He closes his eyes and focuses. “I’ll get them out. All of them.” he tells himself.

Which does the trick as well as it used to, thirteen years ago.

_I’m ready._

A patient couple of hours later. A slight breeze blows around the ground, bringing an enjoyable and much needed refreshment to spectators and players alike. There is a hush full of anticipation on the stands. As if everyone knows they are potentially going to witness history (and to be fair, cricket crowds are good at picking up this kind of atmosphere).

Even on the field, in the slips, the excitement has been building quietly.

Not that Jimmy hasn’t noticed. But he remains focused. Tries to keep his mind on the job.

“And again. I’ve almost got him.” Jimmy tells himself.

 Takes a couple of deep breaths. Closes his eyes, tries to picture the curve of the ball.

_I know what I'm going to do._

Out of habit (and in search of a reassurance), his eyes meet a familiar pair of eyes at first slip. "Are you there?" he seems to ask.

Ali winks at him. Smiles (and is glad the – newest – blush on his cheeks is barely visible under his cap). “Of course. I’m always there.”

Jimmy runs up. Watches the ball fly.

Knows he’s hit line and length just right.

Directly into a pair of hands.

At first slip.

"I don't believe it!"

Maybe he's yelled that. Maybe he hasn't. He doesn’t know.

Amidst the applause and cheers from the countless England supporters, the standing ovations, the excited shouts of his teammates and the unbelievable realisation – “384. I broke the record. _I broke Botham’s record”_ – he can’t think straight. Feels shiver after shiver run down his spine.

Can’t focus on anything.

Except one thing.

A familiar face. With sunglasses. Beaming at him. A hand meeting his for a high-five.

And a fierce short hug.

“I’m so unbelievably proud of you.” (Jimmy isn’t sure whether or not he imagined that).

And if there’s a quiet “I’m sorry” – “me too”, it is drowned out by the chants around them.

This hug is far from their first hug. But it’s more than mutual joy at an important wicket.

At yet another entry into the scorecards – “caught Cook, bowled Anderson”.

No. This means more (except for a whirlwind of butterflies for both of them).

Because if there was anything awkward remaining between Ali and Jimmy, it is over in a (definitely excited) heartbeat.

Everything is back to normal.

Or perhaps, worse.

Before Jimmy can say or do anything else, a gloved hand pounds his back.

“You are unbelievable!”

(Jos does occasionally sound much more like a fan than an international cricket player. One of his most endearing qualities.)

 _I’ll never forget that. For as long as I live._ Jimmy briefly closes his eyes. Swallows.

_This might just be the best day I’ll ever have on the field._

_And – I’ve got him back._

 

A valiant century by young West Indies batsman Jason Holder denies them a victory. Still, a draw feels like a fair result. And their performance was good. The best in a while.

So, after stumps, a relieved and proud England team do a short lap of honour around the field. Enjoy the sunset. Thank the fans.

“So, what are we doing this evening?” Jimmy asks Ali while they stop for a selfie with Stuart.

“Your call, really. It’s your day after all.” Ali tells him with a (bashful?) smile.

“Darts it is then.” Jimmy squeezes Ali’s shoulder. “And … I’ve still got your birthday present. If you want it. I mean, it’s April and…”

Can’t finish the sentence.

Ali simply hugs him. “Of course.” he says with a fond laugh.

Arm in arm they join their teammates.

“Let’s never do this again.” Jimmy whispers. “I missed you.”

Ali nods.

Smiles to himself.

 

_Who knows where we’ll go from here?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are picking up again, so there's an obvious tune for this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=trQWns-0qWk


	14. The rain in Spain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June 2015.  
> The England Test squad embarks on a pre-Ashes camp to Spain.  
> And as the summer sun beats down on the training ground, fielding drills and games in the pool, one thing is certain: Ali is NOT, under any circumstances, flirting with Jimmy.

_Where is he?_

Slightly impatiently, Ali paces up and down the corridor.

The team meeting – the first on this long training camp weekend in Spain – is about to start in five minutes. Nothing too special on the agenda, just an overview of the plans and sessions for the first two days and a few general instructions from Trevor Bayliss, their new head coach.

Even now, after almost three years as England Test captain (hard to believe he can still say that, last year was a nightmare and he really expected to get that dreaded phone-call every time something different went wrong), Ali hates meetings. He has never been too sure of his public speaking abilities.

The first couple of days, during their pre-series camp in Dubai, Ali slightly panicked every morning before he was due to go into the dressing room, tell everyone their agenda for the day. Which was silly, he knew that. After all, he had known the lads for a number of years, had been friends with most (especially _one_ (and once again, there is that stupid little rush that he always gets when he just thinks about him) of them. He knew they, unlike the media, were not going to eat him alive if he stumbled over a word or something similar. Nevertheless, he was paranoid. About misremembering something, explaining something wrong, that would have unforeseen repercussions a couple of weeks later.

As with everything in his cricketing career, Ali eventually got used to the task. Took a few notes before he was due to talk to the lads, quietly went over them, making sure he knew what he was going to say.

Nevertheless, a slightly uneasy feeling remained – still remains.

To distract himself, he thinks back to that morning in May when he was jolted awake by the incessant and very insistent buzzing of his phone. Immediately – without looking – knew that it had to be Joe who had to tell him something very urgent. And there was no mistaking the nerves, the immense pride and only a bit of suppressed emotions in that so familiar Sheffield accent at the other end of the line: “Straussy just called me. I’m going to be your new vice-captain.”

Ali had taken a moment to process the news. Remembered how and where they had told him, six years ago. How his immediate reaction had been “this is it, they think I could be captain one day.” How a very proud Straussy had hugged him when they next met, told him that he couldn’t think of anyone he would rather do this with and how Ali could seek him out any time he wanted to go over tactics or share ideas.

_And now, it’s me in Straussy’s position. And one thing, one truth, remains the exact same._

“Congrats, Joe. I’m happy for you. And I really can’t think of anyone I would rather do this with.” Ali eventually replied and was met with that laugh he grew fond of over the last couple of years. Proud, slightly bashful (even now) and definitely affectionate. _A special friendship, ours. We’ll be great._

 

They agreed to meet ten minutes before this team meeting was about to begin, to have a last chat and divide up responsibilities for the day.

And it is not like Joe to be late. He is definitely awake; they have already been for their usual morning run before sunrise. So, where exactly is he now? He should know Ali needs this chat. For numerous reasons. And to calm his nerves.

Hurried footsteps on the hotel’s … make that resort’s, it really is a sprawling luxury complex here on the coast of Andalusia, main staircase. A bang, a muffled curse and the familiar blond mop of hair comes into view, scrambling to collect papers from the cool stone stairs, chuntering to himself in a way that would make _Jimmy_ (no time for butterflies, really, Ali) proud.

Laughing slightly, Ali hurries over to help Joe pick everything up.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Joe laughs, slightly breathless, after he has straightened himself. “I just got these off Paul. The nets lists for this morning and the pairs for fielding drills after lunch. And there’s another one Straussy handed me. Says “team evening, 9 pm, beach bar.”

“Oh gods.” Ali rolls his eyes. “We have done this before, he of all people should remember what a disaster it was.” “That weird bootcamp in Germany, a couple of years ago?” Joe laughs.

Ali confirms his question with a slight nod. “At least we don’t have any SAS soldiers with us this time.” He shudders at the memory. And chuckles at Joe’s facial expression.

“So, you explain the morning plans and I hand out the lists?” Joe asks. “You could also run them through the set-up for the fielding drills in the afternoon, if you want. You know what Trevor and Paul want to do with us and you’re good at getting this stuff across. Definitely a better slip catcher than me.” Ali (he really only does this when nobody else is watching them) gives Joe a one-armed hug. “Ready?”

“Ready.” Joe confirms with that smile. Their smile. Perfected over hours together on the field. That – as both of them know instantly – tells them “don’t worry, I’m also here, we’ve got this.”

 

The racket in the dressing room (more or less) dies down as soon as Ali and Joe open the door.

Ali sits on top of a table (it’s just the lads, no need to be more formal than necessary), Joe on the floor next to his feet. As usual, Ali looks at everyone in turn – Jos’ hair is suspiciously wet, from the shit-eating grin Woody sitting next to him has Ali more than suspects he had something to do with it. A worthy successor to Swanny, in every aspect. Just yesterday he gave both physiotherapists the scare of their lives by hiding in a broom cupboard and jumping out at them when they walked past. Ian squints at Ali a little uncomfortably, no doubt due to his brand-new contact lenses. And Finny definitely needs to find a kit that fits him, even the trousers he’s wearing right now are about five inches too short. Giraffe.

Ali clears his throat – and makes a mistake. He meets Jimmy’s eyes.

And is met with one of the most handsome smiles he knows.

Enough to make him temporarily forget what he was about to say.

“So …” He bites his lip and grins sheepishly. “Morning, folks. Had a good night’s sleep, I hope? We’ve got a full schedule today and we really need to stick to the time table. First of all – 2 hours in the nets, as usual. Paul and Ramps tell me to tell you that they want the batsmen to practice watching the ball and the bowlers…” Ali casts an eye over the lists and stops. “Joe?”

“Yes, Cookie monster?” Joe tilts his head to his right and grins up at him.

“Are you sure these are the correct lists?”

“Yes, why?”

“Say here I’m supposed to train with Finny.” (And this time, Ali deliberately looks in the opposite direction, although he feels Jimmy’s eyes on him.)

Joe laughs. “That’s correct. Trevor said so. He wants everyone to mix up training partners this morning. Says it’s good for us to focus on new aspects for a while. That’s why I’ve got Adil instead of Stokesy.”

“No.” Ali says before he can stop himself.

“What, no?” Joe raises an eyebrow that Ali can’t fail to understand as _I know you’ve got your reasons, but please be careful._ “You heard me. No.”

And there are definitely giggles around them.

“But …” Joe barely manages to suppress a laugh.

“Captain’s privilege. I’ve been training with Jimmy ( _I just hope he hasn’t picked up on the way I said his name)_ for nine years for _reasons._ ” That was Ali’s captain voice again, trained and refined in the West Indies. And as usual, it has the desired effect.

“Okay, okay. I’m not stopping you,” Joe laughs. “Can we please continue?” (And thankfully, only Ali notices the wink his vice-captain gives him – _just tell me in case I need to step in_ – and smiles back. _Thanks for looking after me_ ).

 

Meeting done, everyone heads out to the nets together. A slight breeze from the sea, the hustle and bustle of the port to their right, a glorious bright blue summer’s morning.  The perfect place to get their spirits lifted for a massive summer.

“Doesn’t get much better.” Jimmy grins at Ali while they go through their warm-up together. “Exactly.” Ali stretches. “What’s on the menu for me, today?”

“Just you wait.” Jimmy bends to tie his shoelaces again (triple knots, every time, he’s nothing if not superstitious). As he straightens again and grabs the first ball, his right arm brushes against Ali’s side.

An electric current straight through Ali’s training shirt. His skin tingles as if a thousand ants were crawling over him. A pleasant warm feeling (very familiar, but until half a year ago Ali would have let it slide) in his chest.

Hoping Jimmy hasn’t seen him flush, Ali bends to adjust his pads. “Ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Jimmy salutes and marks his run-up.

 

In the breaks between fending off Jimmy’s deliveries (is it just him or is there extra … _spice_ in the way Jimmy bowls this morning?) Ali watches the rest of his team. Watches Ian struggle to stay on his feet after a particularly fast ball from Mark that has everyone, including Ian himself, applaud appreciatively. Watches Joe laugh with Adil, adjust to Adil’s rather tricky spin balls with the ease that Ali has always envied. Watches Finny use every last inch of his almost six foot seven to make Adam really work for every single shot. Relaxes.

“We’re in good shape. We’re ready.”

“What?” comes the shout from the other end of the nets.

“Did I say that out loud?” Ali sighs at himself. “I think you did. But I’m so used to you muttering to yourself in the nets …” And there it is, that smile that is enough to throw Ali completely off balance.

“Jim. Behave. Or I’ll make you bat.” Ali deadpans and grins as he catches Trevor’s eyes. “Not today.” their Australian coach tells him. “Maybe on Sunday, if there’s time.” Ali nods, ever so slightly disappointed, but careful not to show anything on his face.

“Right, lads,” (that word does sound funny in an Australian accent), “let’s get you out of the sun before it’s too warm. We meet again at 2 pm. Jos?” “I’m going to need you as my assistant, this afternoon.”

“Figured as much.” Jos smiles and takes his helmet off. Waits until Joe has finished packing his bat away. “Starving. You too?” “Of course. Nets always make me hungry.” Joe laughs and they head off together, Jos grabbing one handle of Joe’s kitbag (which weirdly leads to a very sheepish grin from Joe).

 

“See you in 10 minutes.” Jimmy tells Ali as they step out of the lift.

“Just 10 minutes?” Ali raises his eyebrows and grins. “What are you trying to say?” Jimmy scowls. “I think you already know that.” Ali laughs.

Jimmy rolls his eyes and unlocks his door. “Cheeky bastard.”

“Glad to meet your expectations.” Ali calls behind his back and goes to his room. Takes off his training kit and steps into the shower. Closes his eyes as the pleasantly cool water runs down his back. _He’ll never know, and I’ll never tell him. But I can still enjoy this. Joking around with him, being with him, just enjoying having him in my life. Definitely not flirting._

As he changes into a new shirt and jeans, Ali remembers something else that intrigued him his morning. Jos going out of his way to wait for Joe after nets, even helping Joe to carry his kitbag (which is something that Joe doesn’t just let anyone do, he is very territorial when it comes to his bats). And that very odd sheepish grin Joe had when they set off together.

Joe has been on his phone a little more than usual in recent weeks whenever Ali sees him, true. And, as much as they tell each other everything (they really do, on an entirely different level to Ali and Jimmy), Ali can’t shake off the feeling that something is up. Something Joe doesn’t want to talk about or put a name to just yet.

“Was it Jos?” Ali wonders while he ties his shoes. “The guy you were texting with back in December that you didn’t want to tell me about?” It would make perfect sense. They have known each other for years, they have come up through the ranks together – even though, Ali realises with a smile, there is a slight problem, with Jos playing for Lancashire and Joe still very much (sometimes mildly annoyingly so) every inch the Yorkshire patriot.

_I’ll talk to him this evening. I just want to make sure he knows he’s got me._

 

Ali leaves his room and waits for the lift.

Jumps as he feels a hand over his eyes, hears a familiar mischievous chuckle next to his right ear. “Told you it would only take me ten minutes.” A pleasant shiver down Ali’s spine. He turns around and grins at Jimmy. “Suits you.” “What exactly?” (Was it just Ali’s imagination or was there a tiny flush of pink on Jimmy’s cheeks?) “I don’t know what you’ve done to your hair but …”

“There you are.”

Trust Stuart to interrupt them.

“What are you having for lunch?” their lanky friend grins down at them. “Something Spanish.” Ali replies. “Might as well, no idea when we’re going to be able to come here next and I do like that cuisine.”

“I quite fancy a grilled fish. Any kind really.” Stuart says as they step into the lift.

 

They are, as usual, last in the hotel dining room. Everyone is already busy at the various salad and starter buffets. Joe, carrying two plates full of salads, catches Ali’s eye and vaguely nods in the direction of a round table to their left where two sets of cutlery and untouched plates are waiting. “Saved those seats for you.” “Thanks.”

Ali sits down and wants to look at the menu when a hand (he doesn’t have to look around, the way his skin feels on fire again) brushes the back of his neck. “Is this seat free?” Jimmy asks with just a hint of a smile. And doesn’t wait for Ali’s (slightly shaky, _for god’s sake_ ) “sure.”

Ali unfolds the menu and Jimmy leans slightly to his right so they both can read it together. _I never knew just how much you can feel someone’s presence even if you’re not touching. Wow._ “So, paella?” Ali asks to distract himself. “Good idea, me too.” Jimmy gets up again. “I’m just gonna grab something from the buffet…” Ali starts to rise from his seat. “No, you stay here. I’ll get you your usual. You order for us in the meantime?” Ali nods and smiles.

A matching smile from Jimmy. Not the first time today.

Ali can’t dwell on it, though (which is probably just as well), because as soon as Jimmy turns to head for the buffet, one of the friendly waiters appears at the table to take his lunch order.

Before they know it, their short, too short lunch break is over, and it is time to go back to the training ground. Three hours of fielding drills, something nobody – with the possible exception of Jos (as he always says, there is nothing more fun than being able to roll around the grass catching stuff) – enjoys, but something they definitely need to work on. If they want to go anywhere in this Ashes series.

As the relentless Spanish sun (Ali does catch himself wondering just how hot it gets at the height of summer) beats down on the training ground, they divide in groups, catch and throw balls, throw themselves on the grass, take a break every now and then for some much needed cold water and to listen to Trevor’s (he does have a good eye) and Paul’s observations. Stretch.

“Right,” Paul shouts after what feels like an eternity. “Last round and then we’re done for the day. Jimmy and Stuart, you bowl one to everyone. Take turns. Lads, try to remember what Trevor and I told you. Easy catches. No acrobatics – “Ben catches Paul’s eye and laughs – “please. I don’t want you to over-exert yourselves or get injured.”

“Why is he singling me out?” Ben complains to Mark while they take their favourite positions on the field. “I can do ordinary stuff as well, you know.” Mark laughs. “Hard to believe, coming from you.”

“You okay?” Stuart slightly pokes Jimmy in the side with a finger. Jimmy jumps. “Miles away, sorry.” Bites his lower lip – and, for once, is really glad he is wearing sunglasses. _I probably was making what Stuart once called heart eyes. I don’t even have to look in a mirror to know that. I mean, is that any wonder? He does look particularly lovely this afternoon._

Stuart cocks an eyebrow. “Careful, mate.” he says softly.

“Thanks, but I know what I’m doing.” Jimmy grumbles, not entirely without affection. “Jos first?”

“Sure. Hit him with an outswinger.” Stuart suggests and they exchange a quick fist-bump. _At some point, I really need to tell you how much I love that. Our little chats and reassurances before an over. Nothing calms me down better. Well … almost nothing._

Just before Jimmy runs up, he lets his eyes wander to first slip.

And gets a bashful (completely adorable) grin from behind the very dark sunglasses. “Wonder what your plan is.” Ali seems to say. “Just you wait.” Jimmy winks at him, enjoys the quick rush of affection and concentrates again. _I need this. Just to give me the final push. And for a number of other reasons. That you’ll never hear about._

Jos, much to everyone’s surprise and Joe’s (Joe’s? What is going on there?) immense delight, takes an absolute blinder of a catch. Diving low to his left, he grabs the ball with his fingertips and – as if it was the easiest thing in the world – jumps up again, beaming and holding his trophy aloft.

“Catch, mate.” Jimmy shouts appreciatively. “Thanks!” Jos pulls his gloves off and crosses the field, glad for the much-needed shade. “Stu, what are you going to do?” he asks as he flops himself down on the grass next to the crate with balls.

Stuart – as usual before a delivery – can’t hear him. Is already busy going through his ritual (even though this is a training session, best not jinx it). Three scratches on the ground. Three stretches. Three jumps. A quick glance over to first slip. Run.

And a bounce.

A very steep bounce.

The ball hits Ali square between the legs. Searing, immense, indescribable pain that makes tears shoot up in his eyes. He very dimly realises that he must have hit the grass, rolled over – or curled up? – while everything below his belly-button _hurts_. There is no other word, not even a metaphor to describe it. Intense, unpleasant nausea rises up in his throat and it is all he can do not to throw up. _Fuck._

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, I’m so sorry!” That was Stuart’s voice. And to his right, Ali registers a distinct sound – Joe, straining not to laugh. _You little insubordinate little cheeky shit._ Ali grits his teeth.

“Joe, behave,” Ian calls while sounding like he is about to laugh as well.

_And you’d think they treat me with respect. Lads. Seriously._

Ali’s nausea subsides a bit as he suddenly registers there is a hand in front of his face.

And a breathtakingly attractive face to go with it. “Fuck, that was painful. You okay, mate?” Jimmy sounds oddly hoarse. “Think so.” Ali croaks. “Let me give you a hand.” Jimmy offers. A bit more softly than he intended to.

Hesitantly, Ali grabs it and lets Jimmy pull him to his feet. “Can you stand?” Jimmy asks quietly. Has taken Ali’s arm and wrapped it around his shoulders, still holds onto Ali’s hand.

_Which I am so very aware of right now. I wish … I wish you’d never let go._

“I’m …” Ali pats himself down. Everything seems still to be where it is supposed to be. “Okay. Yes, I think I can manage.” He takes a couple of deep breaths to steady himself and hobbles from the field, leaning on Jimmy’s arm (which he oddly seems to insist on holding just where it was). Grabs an ice-pack a sympathetic Phil hands him from the first aid box, shoves it down his trousers. Sighs quietly with relief.

“I am SO sorry.” Stuart pats his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I know you didn’t intend to.” Ali reassures him. Leans back against the wall, takes off his sunglasses, resigns himself to watch the rest of the session.

 

“Good job, everyone.” Trevor tells his boys after Mark took a particularly high ball from Jimmy with one hand. “You all got the message, I think. We’re going to do this again tomorrow afternoon, with a few extra challenges. That’s definitely gonna help us in the Ashes.” “Did you just say us?” Joe points out. Ali rolls his eyes at him – _couldn’t help yourself, could you?_ – and Joe laughs.

“Anyway,” Trevor continues, taking Joe’s comment in stride, “you’re off for the rest of the day. Until nine pm, that is. That’s where we all meet in the beach bar. I don’t know what Andrew’s got planned either, before you ask.”

 

Jimmy helps Stuart carry the crate with balls over to the locker. “So, pool?” Stuart suggests. “Absolutely. Just …” “Don’t worry.” Stuart finishes Jimmy’s sentence. “I’ll keep you busy.”

“Are you going for a swim?” Joe has caught up with them. “Can we come too?”

“Depends on who you mean by “we”.” Jimmy replies. “Oh, just me, Ali, Mark … and Jos.” Joe says nonchalantly – or at least tries to. Desperately hopes nobody has picked up on that slight annoying boyish squeak his voice just got.

“If you must.” Jimmy shrugs. “Thanks Jim.” Joe pats his shoulder and hurries into the dressing room to get changed.

“Cheeky little bastard.” Stuart laughs. “See you in 20 minutes, Jimmy.”

 

“Pool?”

Jimmy gives a start. “Didn’t notice you, sorry.”

“Thought so.” Ali smiles and briefly squeezes his shoulder. Doesn’t know (thank goodness) that even that friendly gesture sends a million shockwaves through Jimmy. To hide his embarrassment, he busies himself with his kitbag. “So, you okay again?”

“Yep. I could have done without that experience, to be frank. Can definitely do with a swim, though. You too?”

“I was about to ask you exactly the same thing.” Jimmy smiles.

“Should have known.” Ali matches Jimmy’s smile and ties his shoelaces. “Don’t forget to bring that inflatable ball you bought yesterday.” “Sure won’t.”

“See you in the water then.” _Why on earth did I say that. Why didn’t I stop myself._

 

An upbeat party waits for Ali as he leaves the hotel building and feels the warm early summer sun heat up every last inch of his skin. “Are we playing anything?” he calls in their general direction.

“Nothing. Just throwing the ball around.” Mark replies.

“Fine with me.” Ali takes off his sandals, crouches down and lets himself slide – toes first, as usual – into the pleasantly refreshing pool water. “We’ve had enough catching practice for today, if you ask me.” _I don’t know what it is about my boys this year. But something about them just makes me relax._

At which point Stuart throws the beach ball so hard at him that Ali has to stretch to prevent it from hitting his nose. “You could have warned me at least!” “Sorry, Cooky. At least it wasn’t your family jewels this time.” Stuart retorts with a mischievous grin that would have made Swanny proud. “I’m gonna make you regret that.” Ali scolds him and throws the ball back.

Soon enough, everyone in the pool finds themselves caught up in a very serious (for the most part) game of dodgeball. Complete with yells, shouts and lots of gleeful comments. And laughter. So much laughter.

And (for Ali) more opportunities than not to sneak a glance in Jimmy’s direction. To enjoy the sight (he will catch enough sun this weekend, at the moment he’s still quite pale) of Jimmy in his bathing trunks, his usually so well-styled hair made all sorts of messy by the water, giggling (something people who don’t know him well wouldn’t think he’s capable of) as he splashes a handful of water in Mark’s face and then tries to escape Mark’s energetic lunge forward.

And – every so often – to have Jimmy’s eyes, those hazel eyes Ali can read better than anyone else’s – meet his. With a questioning look, a shit-eating grin that Ali knows will be followed by one of Jimmy’s trademark deliveries (because the size of the ball doesn’t really matter to him, not when he’s in one of these moods) that he’d better get out of the way of before it can do any serious damage, or a smile. One of those smiles. That Ali simply can’t get enough of. And there’s also the fact that …

_bang._

The beach ball hits Ali’s left temple. “Ouch! Who was that?”

A familiar chuckle.

“Should have known.” he sighs affectionately, gathers enough water to splash in Joe’s general direction before turning around. “You do know you being my vice-captain doesn’t mean I let you get away with everything?”

“Yes.” Joe grins. “But I had to stop you.” He closes the gap between them in a few more or less elegant strokes and stops a few inches away from Ali’s left ear.

“You were staring at Jimmy. Or Jimmy’s backside, to be precise.” Joe whispers in Ali’s ear.

“Oh. Shit. Thanks. Did he notice?” Ali feels heat rising up from his jaw and taking over his entire face.

“Not that I’ve seen, he’s chasing Stuart over there.” Joe replies quietly and pats Ali’s back. “Told you I was going to look after you.”

“Speaking of which … “At which point, Jos interrupts them. “I’m starting to get cold.”

Joe’s ears turn a dark pink. “Me too. I’ll be with you in a second.”

Ali watches him with a raised eyebrow and shoots

him a look. _It’s like that, is it?_ Joe understands the question and answers with a shy grin.

 _At least (if I understand Jos’ behaviour correctly), you two are in with a chance._ Ali swallows a sigh and lies on his back. The chlorinated water pools around him, carrying him forward one careful stroke after the other. _I need to take my mind off things._

A few hours of fooling around in the pool. Then, dinner – an open-air buffet, freshly grilled meat, seafood, fish and vegetables and some very delicious Spanish pastry (thank heavens Jimmy was smart enough to save Ali a few of those magnificent chocolate biscuits).

At 10 minutes to nine, they meet up in the lobby.

“Does anyone have any idea what Straussy’s up to?” Ian asks nobody in particular. “Absolutely not.” Gary says and shudders. “As long as it isn’t too embarrassing.” “Don’t worry,” Stuart reassures them. “This is Straussy we’re talking about. He, unlike other people, won’t ask anyone to throw themselves under the bus… speaking of, where’s Joe?”

“No idea. He did jump up fifteen minutes ago. Said there was something he had to fetch from his room.” Mark replies.

“ _Let’s go, lads_.” Ali tells them before speculations can break out again.

 

The beach bar – maybe a slight exaggeration, it’s nothing more than a ramshackle hut with a few old comfortable armchairs and sofas and a tattered bar (but a rather new looking stage) – is already lit up as they arrive. Small black tables, decorated each with a candle and a glass bowl full of peanuts, adorn the room and there is a faint tinkle in the air – as if someone is trying out different tunes and chords on his guitar.

“Good evening, everyone.” Straussy addresses the room as soon as they all have found a place to sit. “Since we have a few new faces in the squad and I don’t think everyone knows each other that well, I thought there was something fun we could do this evening. I… well, all of us chat about cricket for the most part of the day. But you’ve all got something else that you’re interested in. Or good at. Right?” A few very puzzled looks. “So, I thought, you all could use this evening to show yourself in a new light. Everyone gets five minutes. Just do something you think nobody has ever seen you do before. Tell us about something you’re passionate about, sing, tell jokes, anything you like. Just one rule – it cannot be cricket-related.”

Appreciative murmurs fill the room.

 _That’s actually a good idea,_ Ali realises. _Put everyone in the spotlight for a few minutes but don’t ask us to embarrass ourselves. I think I …_ “gin and tonic, please,” he tells the waitress who is hovering a few foot away from him _… I could sing. They haven’t heard that in a while._

“First, Joe wants to play us a few songs on his guitar.” Straussy tells the audience.

_And why am I not surprised._

“Evening, lads,” a slightly shy Joe says from the stage, his trusted old guitar on his lap. “I think … or at least anyone who’s ever been on a tour with me knows I like to bring an instrument along with me. I had a few guitar lessons some years ago. Helps me unwind, especially away from home. I usually watch videos on YouTube to get the general idea for a song. And then … well I’ve got this book of chords. And I try to teach myself.”

“What’s your favourite music?” Straussy asks with a smile.

“Indie mostly. I discovered Mumford and Sons last year, their stuff is quite easy to play and the lyrics are beautiful. So, anyway, here you go.”

An expectant silence falls over the room at the same time as the first drinks arrive.

Joe strikes up a chord. Closes his eyes.

And starts to sing.

“I will wait, I will wait for you …”

 _You chose that on purpose, didn’t you?_ Ali realises as shiver after shiver runs down his spine. _That song sounds like it was written for Jimmy and me. And … thanks, Joe._

Joe catches his eye and smiles.

A wave of affection. And -

Thunderous applause.

“Really nice, Joe, well done!” Ian shouts. “Could we have an encore?”

“Sure.” Joe grins. “This one is dedicated to someone special. He knows who he is so I’m not going to answer any questions about it. Are we clear? Good.”

“I don’t wanna wait anymore,

I’m tired of waiting for answers…”

And within seconds, Ali is back in his kitchen. In December. The day after the single worst day he experienced in nine years of international cricket. With Joe, waiting for their spaghetti carbonara to be cooked. Realising that he’s not alone. That – quietly, unassumingly – he has found a new friend. A real friend. Someone who won’t ask too many questions. Who’s always there. To support him, listen to him, take his mind off his many worries.

_I’m so glad I’ve got you._

Joe – no doubt about that – has thought back to that wonderful day as well, going by that warm and shy smile at the end of the song.

Ali meets Joe’s eyes and can feel himself return the smile. “Loved it. Thank you.”

 

Any initial misgivings about the evening evaporate amidst appreciative applause and surprised grins. “I never knew your voice was that good,” Jos tells Joe as he sits down next to him, safely storing his guitar back in the case. “You liked it?” (Stupid high-pitched stupid annoying voice.)  “Sure. Loved it.” Jos clinks glasses with Joe. “And what are you going to do?” Joe asks to get over his initial embarrassment.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Jos grins and grabs a handful of nuts. Shuffles closer so his knee almost – almost – touches Joe’s.

 

Acrobatics (Ben, no surprise here), funny childhood stories and an Alan Partridge impersonation from Stuart that has everyone, especially Straussy, in stitches. The “team evening” is a complete success. Reveals new sides of everyone to the rest of the team, makes them appreciate each other in entirely new ways.

 

“That was fun.” Ali tells Straussy a couple of hours later while they amble back along the path to the resort’s main building. “It was? Glad to hear. I know you’re not usually into this kind of stuff.” Straussy winks at him. “I’ve learned a thing or two in the last couple of years.” Ali admits.

They share a look. “You know, you can still come to me.” Straussy smiles. “Any time. I … well, we were opening partners for such a long time, I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Thanks, Andy.” Ali hugs Straussy, making sure nobody else sees them. “Means a lot, to hear that from you.”

“What are you up to?” Straussy asks.

“Darts with Jimmy and then off to bed.”

“So, that hasn’t changed.” Straussy notes dryly. And smirks.

“Absolutely not.” (Unlike everything else. But, sorry, Andy, that’s something I can’t talk to you about.)

 

The beach bar is almost empty, everyone heading off in different directions as soon as Mo had finished telling them about that time he wanted to surprise his family with self-made muffins when he was eight. A soft warm rain has started to fall, drumming a pleasant tune on the roof.

Soon – to their mutual surprise – only Stuart and Joe are left, finishing their second round of drinks off in silence, listening to the waves.

“Mind if I join you?” Joe asks.

Stuart shuffles on the leather sofa to make room for him.

They toast each other.

“Stu?” Joe asks after a while (and several tries, unsure how he should approach the subject, but he definitely needs to ask and what better time than now, when there’s nobody else eavesdropping on them? After all, a vice-captain needs to look after the team. All of them. Including to, _and especially_ , _his_ _captain_.)

“Yeah?” Stuart musters him interestedly.

“Can I … ask you something personal?”

“Go ahead?”

“You really don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. It’s just … I’ve picked up something between you and Jimmy. Is there … what exactly was there?” Joe deliberately looks the other way.

A soft surprised gasp. Stuart rubs his chin.

“I … wow. You are quite perceptive, you know?” he says hoarsely. Clears his throat. Eventually manages a laugh. “Well, but please, PLEASE, keep it to yourself. There was … something. Just one night. Half a year ago. And … but we realised in Antigua we’re much better off as friends.”  Stuart takes a sip of mojito. “I like him a lot and he’s definitely one of my great influences and role-models. But we’re really best friends. Nothing more.” _And just how true was that statement?_

“Besides,” Stuart adds before he realises what he is saying and can stop himself, “Jimmy has his eyes on someone else. For a while now. Almost four and a half years.”

“Do I know him?” Joe smiles encouragingly. _Don’t tell me … you’re not going to tell me it’s …_

“I …” Stuart swallows one of the mint leaves in his glass. “Please don’t ever mention that you’ve got this from me or I’m mince-meat.”

 “I swear.” Joe takes another sip of his beer.

“Well … he does have quite the crush on our Cooky.”

 

Joe chokes.

“Wh…” another coughing fit prevents him from speaking.

Stuart pounds his back.

“I ….” Joe croaks. Rubs his eyes.

“Are you _KIDDING_ me?” he eventually manages.

 

For a while, only the distant sounds of laughter and music from the resort can be heard in the beach bar.

Stuart’s brain is working in overdrive, trying to put two and two together (it has been a rather long day and he is getting tired).

When he eventually reaches a conclusion, he is too stunned to speak.

“You’re joking?” he whispers. Feels goosebumps on his forearms.

 

“I … well … Ali told me in private, but I … can I trust you to keep this to yourself?” Joe replies softly. “Ali’s … Ali has got a crush on Jimmy.”

They stare at each other. Wide-eyed, incredulous, as the full impact of their realisation dawns on them.

“So they … and that’s why they were … and still are … and … _fuck it!”_ Stuart laughs. “I can’t believe it!” “Me neither.” Joe smirks. “I always thought Jimmy saw him as just his best friend and they actually could have … all this time. Wow. Shit.”

“We need to help them.” Stuart interrupts him. “Alone, they won’t ever figure this out. Because god forbid Jimmy talks to someone about his emotions.”

“How did you ever manage to get him to … never mind. You’re right. We … wow. I still can’t believe it. I mean… the two of them together, can you think of something that would make more sense?” Joe smiles. “Nope.” Stuart agrees.

“We’ve got almost two months of Ashes cricket ahead of us.” Joe rests his chin in his hands. “Enough to come up with a plan. We need to get them into a situation where they can’t escape. Where they need to talk to each other.”

“Any ideas?”

“Give me time. I’ll think of something. And do NOT give anything away to either of them.”

“Won’t, I promise.” “Me neither.”

 

Joe and Stuart finish their drinks, leave tips on the table and take a detour back to the resort. Throw a few half-formed ideas around, laugh, stop every so often to share an incredulous look.

_There may be a way for both of them._

_Ali’s going to be so happy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/cee5S62EfuI THE Cookerson song in my opinion.


	15. Believe in yourselves (and you will carry me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edgbaston, July 31, 2015.  
> As victory in the third Ashes test becomes increasingly likely and the cautiously optimistic mood in the England dressing room turns into something bordering on exuberance, Ali is hit with a flash-back at the worst possible time.   
> And don't remind him about this thing (WHICH ISN'T A THING thank you very much) with Jimmy either.  
> A bit too much too handle, all in all.

Edgbaston is a cauldron.

That is, to some extent, a universal truth.

The historic ground on the outskirts of Birmingham has cultivated its reputation for more than a century now. Prides itself on hosting the noisiest crowds in all of Great Britain, on an atmosphere that here, more than anywhere else, resembles that of a football stadium.

On being unforgiving territory.

Especially for Australians.

 

But on this hot July morning, the atmosphere is even more electric than usual.

As if the 25.000 spectators, ninety percent England supporters going by the sheer noise of the chants doing the rounds for the best part of two hours, can sense that something is in the air. That England are about to finish the job. Bounce back from the comprehensive defeat at Lord’s, take a lead in the series and …

_Focus, Alastair._

The ball fizzes past Ali’s right ear and drops to the ground. No threat. Harmless.

Still, with the speed the Australian quicks have been bowling at these past two and a half tests, it was a wise decision to leave it alone.

Especially today, when even Ali’s most trusted concentration methods seem to fail him. When he finds it incredibly difficult to get into his rhythm, to settle down in the middle of the racket, the encouraging shouts and a very threatening Australian field set up.

Not that anyone is going to notice, mind you. Eleven years of first-class cricket, nine years of international cricket, teach you as much.

 

Whatever it takes, how much it takes out of him to keep up appearances, Ali must not, under any circumstances, let his nerves show.

The Australians will sense it.

And worst of all, his lads will.

 

Which is just about the last thing they need on this third day.

Of a Test that has been even more of a rollercoaster ride than the first games in Cardiff and London.

That, to everyone’s delight and excitement, saw Steven Finn, Finny, their giraffe (Stuart’s nickname has really caught on), finally show his true talent again (has anyone ever been through more injuries in barely 25 years than the poor guy?) and take a much-cheered six-for in the Australian first innings.

His first in international cricket.

And Finny’s immense pride, the wide beaming smile he greeted everyone with as they high-fived (as much as that was possible, he is six foot seven) and hugged him, gave his teammates a much-needed lift. Reminded them that they were playing well, they were at home, they had the crowd on their side and if they could just keep up that performance a little while longer …

_Whack._

Ali hits the ball with his tried and trusted cover drive, follows it to the boundary with his eyes.

Allows himself to breathe a little easier for the first time in the last hour.

 

And just in time – as if they, of all people, had picked up on it – the umpires signal for lunch.

A break. Time to get his nerves, his anxiety under control.

To … no, it’s really not the time to worry about him just yet.

_Because that would probably ruin my innings._

“Shot, Cooky.”

Adam holds his hand out and Ali bumps gloves with him. “Thanks. You taking over after lunch?” “Sure.” Adam grins. “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine. We can chase down 121. I know we can.”

Ali returns his grin and sincerely hopes that Adam thought it was genuine.

_I need a bite to eat. And some time for myself._

A quietly excited dressing room is already waiting for their openers as they climb up the stairs. “We can really do this!” Jos shouts and squeezes Ali’s shoulders. Can hardly contain his delight – as usual. Which, on most days, is inescapably infectious. _Keep that attitude, if you can,_ Ali thinks while he unstraps his pads and throws on a fresh training shirt and shorts. _It’s going to help you. And us._

Joe catches Ali’s eyes and points to a small black box next to his kitbag. Which, as Ali knows, contains his brand-new headphones, bought when they came back from Spain at the beginning of this month. _Come here. You look as if you need this right now._

Ali catches himself winking and nodding at him. _I’ll be there in a second._

“What does everyone want from the buffet?” Ben stands in the middle of the room. “Mark and me are going.” “I’ll join you,” Mo replies. “Cheers lads,” Ian, sitting on the floor with his feet stretched out, replies. “My usual, please.” “What’s that?” Ben grins at him with a raised eyebrow. “Sorry. Forgot that you don’t know this place as well as I do. So … I’ll have an Italian sandwich. They do it with Mortadella over here and it’s simply excellent. Also, I may have been starting to eat that during our county games and so far we’ve always won when I did.” “Fair enough,” Jonny agrees. “One for me too, please, Ben.”

After Ben, Mark and Mo have taken everyone’s orders and left to join the doubtlessly considerable lunch queue, everyone returns to their usual favourite pasttimes during a break. Jos – as if he had no care in the world – takes the novel he has been reading for a week out of his kitbag, makes himself as comfortable as he can in his corner and flicks to the page he stopped in the morning. Stuart does a couple of stretches and then plays with a (to Ali’s eyes) distinctly familiar little blue ball. Juggles the ball with both hands, laughs at himself. Looks to be almost completely at ease, relaxed, confident.

As soon as he’s made sure nobody is paying any attention to them, Ali crosses the room and flops down on the bench next to Joe. “You okay?” Joe asks as he hands Ali an earpiece. “More or less. Ish.” Ali leans back against the wall. “Let’s go outside before lunch is over.” Joe suggests with a smile. “Thanks. I really need that, today. What are we listening to?” Ali smiles at Joe and feels himself relax a tiny bit. “Something you haven’t heard of, probably. But I’m sure you’ll like it.” Joe winks at Ali and – after making sure Jimmy, who is still very likely moping in the physiotherapists’ room, hasn’t decided to join them, puts an arm around his friend’s shoulders. _I’m here. Don’t forget. I’m here and we’ll dig in together. Until we’ve done the job._

Lunch is over in a hurry. After a quick chat to everyone, Ali puts on his whites and his pads again, takes his bat, stretches a bit. A couple of deep breaths. _It’s just 121. Nowhere near as steep as I worried._

Joe puts a hand on his left shoulder. “Out?” he whispers. Ali nods.

“Five more minutes, lads,” Trevor tells them as they leave the dressing room. Turn a couple of corners, making sure not to bump into any journalists. Or worse – Aussies.

“Listen to me.” Joe leans on the wall next to Ali. Hand still on his left shoulder. A comforting, reassuring weight. “Nothing’s going to happen, okay? We are on top, we’ve been on top since Finny took that unbelievable six-fer. It’s only 117 now. We can and we are going to chase that target. We are going to win this test. I know you’re worried and I know you’re scared …” Ali bites his lip to distract himself from the blush he can feel on both cheeks, “but I know we will. I’m with you. Every step of the way.”

Instead of a reply, Ali hugs him.

Holds him.

Feels Joe’s hand (slightly hesitantly, even now) stroke his shoulders.

“Thank you.” he says softly. “Let’s get it done.”

 

During lunch, the supporters seem to have decided to show them just how loud they can be.

The noise, the chants, the applause after every shot or ball wisely left alone, is deafening. A constant over the following two hours. Almost makes it impossible for the Australian fielders to understand each other’s comments, compliments and instructions. Has them eventually, as a gleeful Jonny points out to his audience on the balcony, resort to increasingly frantic gestures and signs.

During the short break after Adam loses his wicket, Ali allows his thoughts to focus on Jimmy again. For the first time since last night and Jimmy’s – unusually subdued – birthday party. Party is actually a slight exaggeration.

Ali, Joe, Jos (to nobody’s surprise, these days it’s almost impossible to get Joe without his wicketkeeper friend (friend? or more than that?) or the other way around), Stuart, Mo and Ben carried a chocolate cake, candles and a couple of treats from the hotel dessert buffet over to Jimmy’s room after dinner.

Wanted to take his mind off his pain. Off the injury he picked up during the Australian innings earlier in the day, at the worst possible moment. In the middle of his run-up.

Ali’s heart sank as he saw Jimmy stop, gingerly touching his left side with his hands. Wincing. Gritting his teeth. No doubt Jimmy knew it the second it happened. A side strain. The bowler’s most dreaded and painful of injuries. Without a real effective treatment. Except for icepacks and painkillers.

Jimmy – as usual when he’s injured – withdrew to his room as soon as they had returned to the hotel. Locked the door.  Furious with himself. With his stupid useless body failing him in the middle of the stupid most important test of this series when they really needed him. He felt like he’d personally let Ali down. Did not want to face him for the rest of the day. Knew that the sight was enough to make Ali panic (and if there’s one thing that makes Jimmy feel helpless and useless, it’s the sight of his best friend when he’s anxious).

Although he’s not going to tell him so (he has to keep up appearances after all), the “surprise party”, Stuart’s idea mostly, came as the ideal distraction for Jimmy. And the cake was good. Finished in less than half an hour. Did help to cheer him up somewhat. As did his friends, falling over themselves to give off their best impressions of the Australians’ looks after they had lost their wickets.

 

Sixteen runs to go.

Ian and Joe look confident, rotating the strike every so often to make the Australians adapt. Exchange little smiles, winks and the occasional thumbs-up after a good shot. Don’t have to make much of an effort to ignore the (very few) sledges directed their way.

“Only 10 now!” Jos, who has been keeping a countdown for everyone’s benefit, shouts.

Even Paul and Trev, who have spent the last fifteen minutes chatting quietly in a corner, now join the audience on the balcony. Paul exchanges high-fives with Ben and Mark (who, as Ali only now notices, has taken off his neon shirt. Obviously convinced that he’s not going to have to do anything for the rest of the day). “Lads, this is it.” Paul smiles proudly and leans next to Ben. “I know, I’ve been having shivers for a while.” Mark grins.

Shivers – of an entirely different kind – run down Ali’s spine. Without looking ( _don’t let him notice)_ , he knows the reason. Strains to keep his voice normal as he feels Jimmy’s hand on his lower back. “I just had to see it.” Jimmy whispers. “How’s your…?” Ali replies. “Painkillers work okay.” Jimmy strokes (s _tupid goosebumps)_ Ali’s back. “Come on, you don’t want to miss it, do you?”

With a wide smile – all of a sudden, out of nowhere – Ali rests his arms on the railing. Jimmy’s hand still on his shirt, weirdly reluctant to break contact. “Five to go!” Jos announces. In a slightly higher voice than normal.

 _Is it because…_ Ali strains his eyes to look on the field and knows his instinct was right. Wonders where that proud feeling just came from. _Ian’s put Joe on strike. He’s going to let Joe have the moment._

 

Mitchell Marsh takes over from Nathan Lyon. Determined to make them wait just a tiny bit longer …

but Joe hits the ball with all the elegance he can muster.

 

And while the red leather cherry shoots past frantic Australians on the way to another boundary, the cauldron that is Edgbaston erupts. Jumps, shouts, yells, cheers and chants. Applause. High-fives. Grins. Proud hugs from Paul and Trev. “Stand up if you’re two-one up!” the English faithful start to chant and everyone joins in. Including an exuberant, laughing balcony.

Joe waves his bat at the crowd. “This is it!” Ian yells as he races over to hug Joe. “What do you … you sure?” Joe replies, grinning from one ear to the other. “I’ve been here before several times, remember, Rooty. I can tell.” Ian says with a confident smirk.  “Just don’t say it out loud, please, Belly. I don’t want to jinx it.” Joe tells Ian and they both laugh again. “Let’s wait for the others.”

 

Handshakes with the Australians, slightly exuberant interviews and celebrations with the supporters done, there is something like a race back to the dressing room. To a much-needed cool shower, a snack, but most of all to finally celebrate among themselves. To let it sink in.

“One more. Just one more.” Jos keeps repeating to everyone as they climb up the stairs to a few downright filthy songs about Australians and kangaroos (although Ben denies it, Jonny and Mo are sure they could hear him sing “That Mitchell Johnson, his bowling is shite” while he took off his shoes).

Slightly disbelieving smiles as they realise just how right Jos’ comment was.

_Just one more. We go to Trent Bridge in two days. We’ll have a good look at the pitch (I’ll definitely need Stuart’s help), we’ll make our decisions and do our best in training. And then …._

But Ali doesn’t want to finish the thought right now. Does not dare to dream. Just yet. It wouldn’t be the first time that he let himself get carried away too early.

“Erm, skip?”

“Sorry, Mo. Was miles away.” Ali laughs.

Thirteen identical, beaming grins.

“Well done, lads.” Ali smiles at everyone in turn. “That was the response we needed! I told you we could win this if you kept believing in yourselves – and you did much more than that.” (and he’s sure the undertone of “and you don’t know how much you helped me with it” was picked up by nobody. Except maybe Joe. And Jimmy ( _STOP IT_ ).)

“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” Trev agrees. “I don’t want to single anyone out, that was an all-round great performance, guys. We’re back on track! But don’t forget we’re meeting again in Nottingham in two days. So, as much as I can see you’re all in the mood for an all-nighter,” laughs especially from Ben and Adam, “please don’t go overboard. Promise? Try to be in bed at a sensible hour.” A few disappointed sounds and an absolutely hilarious pout from Mo.

Trev grins at his boys. “Well … If you behave tonight and we play this well in Trent Bridge, you can go as nuts as you want.” “That’s the spirit, boss!” Stuart laughs and everyone high-fives their coach as he crosses the room and heads for the shower.

“Right, lads, I’ve got nothing to add,” Ali says. “I’ve got the press waiting for me” – sympathetic chuckles – “but as far as I’m concerned, you’re off for the rest of the night. Just one thing … I _don’t want to hear anything after 1 am, okay?_ ” “What are you looking at me for?” Mark complains half-earnestly. “Woody, you’re a convincing actor.” Jonny pokes Mark’s ribs. “We all know it was you who left the yogurt containers with water outside Paul’s door in London last week.”

“You going to join us for a couple?” Stuart smiles at Ali. “Sure, why not. Let’s meet downstairs at 7:30.” “I know just the pub for tonight.” Ian points out. “Thanks Belly.”

Smiling to himself – and then quickly putting on a neutral expression as a very disgruntled David Warner passes him – Ali heads for the press area. Collects himself, reminds himself not to give anything away.

 And … there’s a hand on his back. Again.

“Just going to see Phil for some extra painkillers and that ointment he gave me yesterday,” Jimmy says softly. “You okay?” “Stop sneaking up on me,” Ali laughs. To distract himself from the completely inappropriate (but VERY pleasing) mental image about a physiotherapist’s table that just popped up in his head.

“Couldn’t resist.” There’s an almost impish grin on Jimmy’s face. “We going out with Belly or do you want to do something a bit less loud?”

“Pub’s fine with me.” Ali nods (hopes Jimmy mistakes his no doubt unbelievably silly smile for something else).

“See you in 15 minutes then.”

“You don’t have to wait for me.”

“You didn’t say anything about having to.” Jimmy points out with a laugh as he turns around.

Ali stops himself from staring (you never know who you may run into after the end of a test match). Takes a deep breath and opens the door to the press conference room.

 

Perhaps the delight and pride of the rest of his teammates has rubbed off on Ali after all. Because today, even the press conference with its slightly predictable questions feels less than an unpleasant chore than usual. More than an opportunity to wax lyrical about every single one of his boys, point out how much of a team effort their performances in the series have been so far. And – with comparative ease – dodge every question if he thinks they have gained the upper hand, today.

Slightly exhausted but proud of himself (as far as statements about Jimmy go, that was the most neutral he’s managed to sound in a while – he still remembers that press conference in Cardiff two years ago … _perhaps I really should have noticed it back then_?), Ali leaves the room and now, finally, feels the fatigue of the day’s efforts catch up with him.

Yawns.

Hears a familiar (wonderful) laugh. “Survived?”

“Yep. Can’t wait to hit the shower.” Ali smiles and (even though a thousand tiny fireworks shoot through his body) side-hugs Jimmy. “The lads will be waiting for us, no doubt. And you know how they are when they’re hungry.”

Arm in arm, they go back to the dressing room. Pause for a brief moment. “Unusually quiet.” Jimmy wonders. “They can’t all have left already?” “It’s already 6:35,” Ali looks at his watch. “Maybe…”

Jimmy opens the door.

 

And has to bite back a surprised shout as a very startling and definitely unexpected sight reveals itself.

The dressing room is almost deserted.

Except for two figures, dressed in tracksuits, huddled together in a corner.

Arms around each other. Completely lost to the outside world.

And – very definitely – kissing. Making out, to be precise.

A distinct mop of short light blond hair … and a slightly darker, almost brown one.

_Joe and Jos._

Ali has to make an effort not to laugh as he catches Jimmy’s completely baffled expression. “This is a thing?” Jimmy whispers. Quietly, not wanting to startle them, Ali nods.

Unsure what to do (what _does_ one really do when one’s just walked in on a friend making out with someone?), Ali and Jimmy remain standing in the doorway. Not wanting to watch, but unable to look away either.

_Talk about all sorts of awkward. I … well I’ve been suspecting this for a while, but I always planned to ask Joe. Or wait until he seeks me out about it. And now ... oh well. And DO NOT get me started about the other thing. Just how much that reminds me of what I’d like to do to …_

Before he can stop himself, Jimmy coughs.

Joe and Jos break apart as if they have been hit by lightning. Joe scrambles down from Jos’ lap.  His eyes dart to the entrance. Jos’ follow suit.

And two surprised, slightly anxious, identically crimson faces turn towards Ali and Jimmy.

“Erm.” Jos, unable to hide a satisfied grin, coughs to clear his throat. “This is … well. Shit.”

“Sorry.” Joe, laughing and beaming from one ear to the other, looks Ali directly in the eyes. _I meant to talk to you about it._

 _So? First of all, you weren’t exactly unsuspicious since Spain,_ Ali thinks and smiles at Joe. _And second, I mean, thanks for thinking of me … but I’m just happy you’re happy._

Jos laughs and puts an arm around Joe’s shoulders.

“How long has this been a thing?” Jimmy, curious despite himself, asks as he changes his shoes.

“Since Cardiff.” Jos smiles. “It just sort of happened.”

 _I wish I … we could say the same._ Jimmy stifles a sigh and turns to Joe instead.

“How much do you want the others to know?”

“Please keep it to yourselves for the time being.” Joe snuggles closer to Jos. “We’re going to tell them at some point. Maybe next week? In Trent Bridge … once, we’ve, you know, settled a certain other important thing?”

“Fine with me.” Jos kisses Joe’s cheek and Joe turns an entirely new shade of red.

“Okay, I’ll keep quiet.” Jimmy wonders where that smile he just felt sneak on his face came from. “Me too.” Ali joins in, slightly hoarsely. It takes all his willpower to keep his expression friendly, neutral. “You coming to the pub with Belly?” “Sure.” “See you later. I need a shower.”

Before Joe and Jos leave the room, holding hands, Joe turns around one last time to meet Ali’s eyes. _Thanks. Means a lot to know I’ve got you._

 _You always do._ Ali smiles as the door closes behind them.

 

There is a very heavy silence while Jimmy finishes tying his shoelaces and types a short text to his dad. A not entirely uncomfortable silence (it never really is when they’re alone), but this time, it feels odd. Almost palpable. As if they’re both fighting against an impulse to say something. Or do something.

Ali rummages around his kitbag and grabs his shower gel. “Right.” Is briefly annoyed how high-pitched his voice sounds. Clears his throat.

Jimmy’s eyes – for a fraction of a second – flick to Ali’s lips. _If I could …._

Angry at himself, he shakes his head. Laughs (sounds strangely strained).

“That puppy. He’s full of surprises.”

“To you, I guess.” Ali can’t help but retort. “I’ve been wondering about them for a while.”

“That’s why you’re captain and I’m not.” Jimmy grins. “I don’t pay this much attention to other people.”

“Anyways,” Ali rolls his eyes fondly, “I’m going to get changed quickly. See you in 10 minutes.”

_You could ask me if I want to join you …_

_NO, JIMMY._ Sighing to himself, Jimmy grabs his kitbag. “Let’s meet downstairs.”

 

As usual, a cold shower does the trick for Ali. Stops him from replaying Jimmy’s look over and over again. _If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was trying to make a move. But that’s never going to happen._

Ali puts his tracksuit on, takes a last look around the dressing room to check if he’s forgotten anything and hurries downstairs. Checks his phone for the first time since the morning. Smiles to himself as he reads congratulatory message after congratulory message. Selfies from his brothers, in the family garden, with the TV screen on in the background showing Finny’s fifth wicket, and the familiar sight of the old barbecue in the foreground. A short text from Straussy that simply reads “almost there, mate.” Thumbs-ups, more selfies, everyone telling him about their favourite moments of the match.

_Keep going and you’re almost convincing me. But I can’t afford to dream just yet._

As he steps out of the ground, a red Mercedes drives past him and honks cheerfully.

“See you later, Swanny!” Ali waves and climbs into Stuart’s car. “Sorry. Took a little longer than planned.” “Don’t worry.” Stuart replies. “Just starting to get a little peckish.”

“Off we go then.” Ali laughs.

 

The lads are already waiting for Ali and Stuart in the hotel lobby. Lounging on armchairs – and tables (typical Finny, but he can’t fit into most seats) – eyes glued to a TV that replays the highlights of the day. Commenting, laughing and applauding.

“Don’t keep us waiting for too long, skip!” Ian says by way of a greeting.

 

Whatever Ali wanted to reply dies down in his throat.

_No. Why. Why now. I haven’t thought about that evening for such a long time. Why. Shit._

Gritting his teeth, Ali nods. “Just going upstairs to get my wallet.”

Stumbles (really hopes the lads don’t notice) towards the lift, blindly presses the button for his floor.

Keeps telling himself to breathe, tries to keep focused by re-calling the order the Australians lost their wickets in the first innings. “Rogers, then Smith, then … Clarke…”

Tries to stop his subconscious from yelling at himself. _What on earth is wrong with you? We just won, we’re 2-1 up, Trent Bridge next where I have no doubt Stuart will step up several gears … Why do you have to … today?_

Swallows to keep his nausea under control as he unlocks the door.

_Wallet. Jeans. Shirt. Shoes. Simple. Get changed and go._

But despite all his efforts, panic takes over as soon as he has opened the closet.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

Trembling from head to toe, Ali lets himself slide onto the soft carpet. Hugs his knees. Closes his eyes.

Can’t focus.

_I need to get out. I …_

 

“It’s already 15 minutes. Anyone want to check what Cooky’s up to?” Mo looks at his watch. “Maybe he’s just got a phone call from his parents.” Ben replies between handfuls of peanuts from a crystal bowl on the coffee table between them.

 _I don’t think so._ Joe is not sure why he is worried all of a sudden. There was something strange about Ali’s reply to Ian, true. But … _He needs me._

Without a second thought, Joe gets up with such force that he almost knocks over his glass of cola. “I’ll do it. Vice-captain duties.” he says with a wink that he hopes was convincing.

Crosses the lobby, heads for the lift. Slight worry turns into something bordering on anxiety while the cabin travels upstairs and the doors open with a “bing” (it really is an identical “bing” in almost every hotel). _What’s wrong? I know something’s up, Ali. Don’t worry. I’m on my way. I’ve got you._

The door to Ali’s room is ajar.

And the first thing Joe sees is something that makes him look twice. Anxious, in disbelief.

Ali, on the floor, arms around his knees. Doesn’t seem to have noticed anything.

“It’s me!” Joe closes the door and hurries over to him. “Ali, it’s me. No need to be scared.”

 _That was probably the most stupid thing you could have said, Joseph,_ he scolds himself as he crouches down next to Ali. _He’s having a panic attack, you idiot. I … why didn’t you tell me?_

“Ali?”

Gently, almost in slow-motion, Joe touches Ali’s forearm.

“Ali. It’s me. Nobody else is here. You’re safe. I … nobody knows. I’m here. I’ve got you. I…,” what did his dad tell him about helping people with a panic attack… keep talking about something entirely different. “Mo told us something interesting just before Stuart and you came back. They say Clarke’s retiring at the end of this series. That he’s about to throw in the towel. That … do you need another sign that we’re on top? If there’s rumours about that already and it’s not even the beginning of August. We are on top. We’ve got everything going our way. And we’re playing at Trent Bridge next week. Stu’s home ground. That has to push us over the line, don’t you think?” Joe squeezes Ali’s arm as softly as he can. “Shit, I should stop talking. But …”

“I hope you’re right.” Ali croaks. As if he needs to remind himself that his voice still works.

Joe smiles at him. Immensely relieved. “Do you … do you need a hug?”

An imperceptible nod.

Joe leans over and wraps his arms around Ali. “It’s alright.” he whispers as he feels Ali’s body shake. Strokes his back. “It’s alright. Nothing to be ashamed of. I … I won’t tell anyone.”

Holds Ali until he feels his friend relax slightly. Look at Joe with glassy eyes and a grateful weak smile.

“Thanks. But how…?”

“Don’t ask me how. I … I just always seem to know when you need me.” Joe whispers.

“Likewise.” Ali briefly wonders where that rush of affection just came from and extracts himself from Joe’s arms a bit. “I was just going to look for my wallet and I … I don’t know what happened. Or why.”

“Don’t worry. This stuff sometimes just happens. You okay with going out?” Joe asks.

“I … yes. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll stay here until you’re done getting changed. And … you can always tell me when it’s too much.”

Ali slowly gets up and looks through his shirts in the closet. Decides on an outfit, goes to the bathroom to get dressed, check his reflection in the mirror. Runs a hand through his hair. Feels his heartbeat finally slow down again.

“Ready?” Joe asks from outdoors.

Ali takes a deep breath. “Yes.” Puts his wallet in his jeans pocket.

Just before they leave his room, Ali hugs Joe again. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you for that.”

“You don’t have to. We’re friends, remember?” Joe laughs fondly.

_I don’t know where I’d be without you, Joe._

Squeezing Joe’s shoulders, Ali locks the door behind him.

Finally – for the first time in the past hours – allows himself to feel proud. Happy about the way their victory came to be, in just three days. Already excited for the journey to Trent Bridge. And for any other surprises this series may hold in store for them.

 “Sorry to keep you waiting, lads. Let’s go! First round’s on me.” Ali tells his boys once they have joined them in the lobby. Feels another firework in his belly as Jimmy smiles at him.

_And if we really manage to pull this off ... who knows._

_Who knows what else could happen?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mHeUEuaT4PI
> 
> Another Cookerson song and one that sums up the mood for this chapter perfectly.


	16. An extraordinary night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August 5, 2015, Nottingham.  
> A tense evening full of petty arguments takes a turn for unexpected, and definitely uncharted territory.

“Would you bloody mind picking this up?”

Mo’s comment – or rather, snap – produces a few surprised looks.

He is usually one of the most relaxed, level-headed players in the team, tries to stay out of any drama (but is nevertheless there for anyone who needs advice, a cup of tea and a little sweet treat (of which he seems to have an endless supply), just focuses on his cricket.

But is it any wonder that even their unflappable Brummie lost his temper (by his standards) tonight? When the manifest apprehension, the nerves (far be it from anyone to admit that they are actually nervous) and the tension have increased steadily since their last training session in the morning, have already led to a couple of small arguments?

It is the night before the fourth Ashes test at Trent Bridge.

Just four (hopefully not five, but the way things have been going since Cardiff, that does not seem very likely) days between them and the first chance to get their hands back on the urn. To regain the Ashes (if there is something everyone wants to avoid like the plague, it is going to the Oval with everything still to play for). To finish the job.

The first chance for … redemption. For want of a better word.

For the first couple of days this week, they managed to push their nerves to one side. Add a few tweaks to their fielding set-up, watch some videos of the Australian bowlers, adjust their techniques and game-plans. Treat it, as Trev has been repeating over and over again, like any ordinary Test match.

But the training sessions came and went quickly – too quickly for Ali’s liking. Monday turned into Tuesday, a press conference, a look at the pitch and heated discussion with the coaches, Joe and Stuart (Ali is still grateful that Stuart volunteered his opinion. First of all, he will be leading their bowling attack in _Jimmy’s_ (seriously, Alastair, we’ve discussed this) absence. But mostly because Trent Bridge is his home ground, it is where he grew up playing and watching cricket. Nobody knows the conditions better than him) and before he knew it, it was Tuesday night again.

A fitful night’s sleep – nothing unusual, he last managed to get a decent eight hours on the second night of their training camp in Spain.

Slight relief in the morning as he opened the curtains and found a grey, cloudy, overcast sky. Immediately followed by the first time he was able to laugh in a couple of days. Because Jimmy’s (cute) miserable pout as he – gradually and with a lot of moaning – pulled himself upright and looked out of the window was priceless.

A last, shorter training session, a last meeting with Joe and the coaching staff, a final vote what Ali should decide on if he wins the toss tomorrow morning. Only time for a quick sandwich and half an hour with Joe, listening to their pre-match-nerves playlist (which, as it turned out, owes its title to Jos). Steadily increasing nausea and thoughts Ali tries to keep at bay as best as he can. The most unhelpful thoughts ahead of tomorrow.

Nerves. Anxiety. And self-doubt.

So, they may have been the better side in Edgbaston. Nevertheless, they’re still playing against Australia. If there is one thing the Aussies have always been good at, it is fighting back from a losing position. Never giving in. And it would be their first win in England since …

_Stop it. You should rather focus on everything that’s currently happening around you._

 

“Sorry, Mo.” Adam bends down and picks up the scattered bits of newspaper. Puts everything back together in the right order, folds it and hands it to Mo. “Well, I’m off … unless there’s something else you need from us, Cooky?”

“No, it’s alright, Mo. But thanks.”

That was almost convincingly relaxed.

Ali wants to turn around when he realises the lads are watching him.

“Sorry, guys. Yes. There’s nothing left to say, today. You’re free to do whatever you want, provided it’s _quiet_ , Mark …” – a few chuckles – “and I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow morning. Seven-thirty.” “Try and get as much sleep as possible, lads. The first session’s gonna be even more important than usual, tomorrow.” Joe adds.

A chorus of “night, Cooky.” Footsteps, travelling off in every possible direction.

Soon, the hotel’s dining room is almost empty.

Except for Ali, Ben, Ian, Joe (and Jos (they’ve managed to remain inconspicuous so far)), Stuart … and _Jimmy._ “What are you up to?” Ian asks. “Come to think of it … it’s been a while since I last played darts,” Jos muses. “Me neither.” Ben chimes in. “You up for a round? What about the rest of you, lads?” A very dark and intense look from Jimmy. Uncomfortable all of a sudden, Ben scratches his nose. “And what did I do wrong this time?”

Jimmy sighs and fixes Ben with an annoyed stare.

“ _How_ exactly am _I_ supposed to throw anything at the moment?” he grumbles.

Jos gives him an apologetic smile. “Wasn’t thinking about that, sorry, Jim.”

“Obviously you weren’t,” Jimmy retorts. Wants to add something but catches a very telling look from Stuart – “go easy on the self-pity, Jim, for Christ’s sake”. Tries to shrug but reminds himself just in time that that really hurts as well, swallows another annoyed sigh and even manages a small smile. “Sorry about that, Jos. I was unfair. I … well I suppose I could keep track of your results?” Jimmy suggests.

“Good idea. That’s something I’ve wanted to learn from you for a while,” Jos replies with a smile.

“That settles it. See you in the bar in fifteen minutes.” Ali says and adds “just going to get my darts from upstairs” in Joe’s direction. Hopes Joe understands the hint – which he does, as usual. Waves to the rest of the lads and hurries to catch up with Ali on the way up the staircase.

“What’s going on?” Joe asks while they climb up to the third floor. Tilts his head slightly to the left, looks at Ali with their smile. _I noticed something’s off. Tell me. Nobody else is here._

Ali sighs. “I…”

“Nerves?” Joe says with a sympathetic grin. Stops on the landing, just ahead of a glass door leading to the rooms on the third floor. Leans against the pane and holds his arms out.

“More nerves than I thought possible.” Ali admits quietly and returns the gesture. Holds Joe.

“Me too.” Joe whispers. “But … we’re doing great. We’ve been playing well, except for Lord’s, but even then, we weren’t completely shit.” “True.” Ali replies against Joe’s neck. “Still … I’ve been thinking. Too much, I think.” “That doesn’t make any sense,” Joe laughs. Steps back a foot and looks Ali directly in the eyes.

“We’ll feel better after the first ball tomorrow morning. I … would you rather we do something on our own, tonight? For c _ertain reasons?_ ” And Joe can’t keep a grin off his face.

 “No, but thanks.” Ali says and laughs. “Darts always takes the edge off, for me. And Joe?”  “Yes?” “Thank you. For always letting me speak my mind. That’s a great help.” “I’m here for you.” Joe replies warmly. “And I’m here for you.” Ali squeezes Joe’s hand. “Let’s go get my darts. Wouldn’t want to keep a certain someone waiting, would we?”

 

When they return to the hotel lobby, Ian and Jos are already busy drawing up scoreboards and discussing the mode of play with Jimmy. Who, initial disgruntlement dealt with, is now in full umpire mode, sitting cross-legged on a discarded old pool table, clipboard on his lap, pen behind his ear and a pint next to him. Gives Ali a wink as he sees him come closer. “301 or 501?” he shouts.

“301. We need to keep an eye on the time as well.” Ali replies and ignores the warmth spreading through his limbs, settling on his belly like a comfortable blanket. _Nothing else matters. When you look at me like that. When … and if I’m not careful, I may end up ruining everything. As much as I want to …_

“That settles it,” Jimmy shouts in Stuart’s and Ben’s direction. “Joe, you’re up first.” “Why?” “Someone has to show us how not to do it.” Ian deadpans. Joe sticks out his tongue and grabs the first arrow. “Eat your words, Ronald.”

 

In the pauses between rounds, they order drinks (anti-alcoholic, the last thing they want is to give the Aussies an unfair advantage by being stupid, as Joe explains to Ben), share a small cup of ice-cream and watch – half-interestedly – a weird movie on the TV screen behind the bar. The volume is off, so it is nigh-on impossible to follow the storyline. Which leads to a few hilarious theories – mostly by Stuart.

And every so often, mostly while Ali is in the process of pulling his three arrows out from the felt-covered dartboard that, like everything else in this hotel bar, has seen better days, Jimmy takes the opportunity to sneak a look at his friend. Is – to his own latent annoyance, _why today of all days_ , - once again awestruck by how handsome Ali is, in a plain red T-shirt and very tight (enjoyably so) dark blue jeans. How fascinating the simple sight of him moving, throwing the arrows with an elegant flick of his wrist, pulling them out in (deliberate?) slow-motion, can be. And how wonderful it is to hear Ali laugh. He does have the most beautiful laugh.  Such a rare sound since this series began, completely disappeared behind nerves and tension. And …

Stuart hits Jimmy on the back of the head with his hand.

“Are you mental?” Jimmy hisses.

“Sorry, mate, but we’ve been waiting for almost three minutes. What do Jos and I need to score in the last round?” Stuart laughs. “I … wait a sec.”

Jimmy looks at his notepad, mostly to bring himself up to speed, but also to hide the quite obvious angry crimson blush that has no doubt taken over his entire face. “And?” Jos, laughing as well, prompts him.

“I don’t know how _the fuck_ this has happened, lads, but I’ve forgotten. I’ve completely fucking forgotten to keep track of both your results since round 5 and … for fuck’s sake, didn’t you count for yourselves?” Jimmy snorts.

Stuart rolls his eyes. “What did I say to you about feeling sorry for yourself.”

“That was not what I meant – “a pause, during which Jimmy gives Stuart one of his particularly menacing glares – “and _you know it._ ”

“Settle down, lads.” Ben, determined to get the situation back under control, says with a hesitant laugh. “So what if we don’t know the exact result. What about this? Stuart and Jos shoot six more and whoever gets the highest total, wins our game?”

“Not very fucking helpful,” Jimmy grumbles.

“ _You could try listening to him, Jimmy._ ” Ali points out. In a slightly louder version of his captain voice. Trying and failing to keep his annoyance with Jimmy at bay. That was just about the last thing he needed on an already tense evening.

Not that he isn’t used to Jimmy having a strop over something very minor. He has learned to deal with all of his moods. Mostly because he needs to. But also because – and Ali is maybe the only person in the team who knows this – there is usually an entirely different reason behind Jimmy snapping at someone. And it is worth taking the time to find out. To help Jimmy deal with it.

But not today. Not when Ali has been spending the afternoon and the best part of the evening on the edge of yet another nervous breakdown.

“Stay out of this.” Jimmy replies between gritted teeth. “Also, you were no help either.”

“Who offered to keep track of everyone’s results?” Ali retorts a little more sharply than he intended. “And it may be news to you, but I don’t have to do every single bloody thing over here. Besides, would it kill you to bloody _ask_?”

“Would it kill you to stop having a go at me?” Jimmy hisses. Gets up from his seat on top of the table. Throws his notepad back down on the covers with a bang. “I already bloody apologised, okay?”

“That wasn’t an apology.” Ali clenches his fists. “That was you snapping at Ben when he actually came up with a very good idea to settle this. And in case you need spelling it out, I am not annoyed that you lost track of our results. I _would be very pleased_ , however, if you, _for a change_ , managed to keep your _fucking_ temper under control!”

Joe touches Ali’s right shoulder. “Come with me.” he whispers, anxious despite himself. Determined not to let the situation escalate. Or something happen – right in front of everyone. Something that could not just throw their preparations for tomorrow into disarray.

Ali recognises the gesture with a brief – very brief – smile. _I know what I’m doing, thanks. I can’t let this slide. He needs to hear this._

“Speaking about temper,” Jimmy snaps. “Who just raised his voice?”

“Which is my bloody right as _captain_ of this team! Especially when one of my _senior players_ is acting like a toddler with a temper tantrum!” Ali buries his hands in his jeans pockets, keeps telling himself to breathe evenly to keep his anger under control.

It may mostly be tension ahead of the decisive first day, tomorrow. Or apprehension at not having Jimmy to lead the attack, at not being able to relax when they take the new ball (okay, that was unfair towards Stuart). It may even be true that Jimmy doesn’t deserve to be at the receiving end of Ali’s emotional chaos.

At the moment, however, Ali could not care less. Jimmy is making his life even more difficult than it already is and he _needs to hear_ this. He _needs someone to tell him straight._ Because he can not get away with everything just because he may be injured and why on earth did he have to get himself injured now and does he not realise how worried Ali is about him and …

 

The hotel bar has fallen silent.

Ali and Jimmy keep staring at each other, Jimmy shaking with suppressed anger, clutching the pen he had been writing the scores with, in his right hand. Oblivious to anything else that is going on around them. 

Stuart, who has been picking up the various arrows and handing them back to their owners, suddenly stops in his tracks.  Looks around until he meets Joe’s eyes. _Let’s do it tonight,_ he indicates.

“You sure?” Joe mouths with a wide-eyed stare.

_I don’t think they … wait a second. Yes. Why not. Because I know why they’re so furious with each other. And so does Stuart. And it really is about time we stepped in. They won’t ever get the message on their own._

_We need to do this. For both their sakes._

At this last thought – _just imagine how happy they will be_ – Joe feels a very telling smile trying to sneak onto his face. Laughing quietly, he gives Stuart a thumbs-up. _Now._

“Ali?” Stuart asks as carefully as he can manage.

“What.” Ali snaps. Immediately feels sorry again. “That was uncalled for, Stu. I apologise. What did you want to say?”

“I … well, before we call it a night…” – “we’re going to stay here and watch the rest of this weird movie,” Ian interrupts Stuart – “me too, maybe,” Stuart continues. “But I just had an idea about our bowling tactics for the first innings.”

“Go ahead?” Ali is more grateful for this change of subject than he initially realised. “What’s on your mind?” The others turn towards Stuart with interested (or, in Joe’s case, very well play-acted) expressions.

“I’d rather discuss this strictly between the two of us. Not really sure where I’m going with this, so I’d prefer to hear your opinion first-hand. And … Jimmy, I’d also like to run it past you. If you don’t mind.” Stuart, taking pains to sound as natural as possible, answers.

Jimmy once again stops himself from shrugging before yet another shooting pain can set his entire left side on fire. “Sure. Always here for that.” he says non-committedly and finishes off his pint.

“Joe, do you want to join us as well?” Stuart asks with just a hint of a wink. “Of course.” Joe replies.

“Right. Ali … your room? In about ten minutes?” Stuart suggests.

 

“Fine with me. Sorry about that, lads.” Ali turns towards Ben, Ian and Jos as the others head off towards the lift. “Never mind. We’re all a little bit on edge.” Ian states and takes a biscuit from the plate behind him. “More than just a little bit,” Ben agrees. “Not a problem, Cooky. That’s part of the job, after all.” “Hope you can sleep tonight,” Jos adds with a smile that says _Joe told me, so in case I can do anything to help…_

“Don’t worry.” Ali matches Jos’ smile (quite a feat, there is still a small fire burning in his stomach). “Sleep well, you lot. I’ll see you at seven-thirty tomorrow morning.”

Ben salutes as Ali grabs his room key from reception and looks at his watch. _Almost nine-thirty. Still quite early, but perhaps I’ll be able to sleep after all. I need to. I’ve just about run out of energy._

While the lift takes him up to his floor, his mind re-plays the argument with Jimmy, over and over again. _Really the last bloody thing I wanted to happen again. And I’ve really lost count of how many times we’ve been arguing about this topic. He … well, he knows how to push my buttons. And I, I fear, know how to do exactly the same for him._

Sighing, Ali unlocks his door, takes his shoes off and lies on the soft king-size bed. Stares at the ceiling, wonders if there is an appropriate word for the shade of dirty yellowish white of the paint, peeling off in more than one place, staring back at him.

Feels, at last, his eyelids beginning to droop. _I should get ready for bed._

Soft footsteps sneak into his room. And leave it again. And he doesn't hear a thing.

 

A knock at his door.

“Coming!” Ali shouts in what he hopes is his most friendly voice (even though he knows he doesn’t have to pretend with those lads, the closest three friends he has in his team). Climbs from the bed, steps back into the comfortable reddish hotel-issue slippers, opens the door.

Jimmy.

In his tracksuit bottoms, an unusually loose-fitting black T-shirt and looking very much like he could fall asleep as soon as he gets the chance to sit down somewhere comfortable.

“May I?” Jimmy asks in that awkward tone he always has when he, deep down, knows an argument was his fault. “Sure.” Ali takes a step to the side and lets Jimmy enter. “I hope this doesn’t take too long.” Jimmy says – more to the floor than to Ali directly. _As per bloody usual. It really doesn’t hurt to admit you’re wrong, Jim._ _You’re stubborn to a fault and that can really give me a headache. Why…. but I guess that’s just who you are._

Ali bites down an exasperated sigh and sits on the small beige sofa next to the window. “Don’t think so. Stu said he would be here in ten minutes. And he does need to go to bed early as well. Massive day for him tomorrow. Considering.”

Jimmy – after a quick glance around the room – settles on the so-far still immaculately made side of the bed. Feet dangling from the mattress, he looks at the very old carpet underneath. Does not meet Ali’s eyes. Is not sure what he is thinking, what he even is supposed to think.

Minutes trickle past. Without either of them daring to speak, let alone move. Faint sounds from the corridors. Footsteps, a laundry basket being rolled into the lift. The weak buzzing of the air condition.

An uncomfortably heavy silence hangs in the air.

Every so often, Ali turns his head, glances over at Jimmy. Tries to read his expression, not so different from his habitual grump. But Ali can’t shake off the feeling that there is something else behind the so familiar set face, the slightly narrowed (wonderfully) hazel brown eyes. Jimmy has his hands folded in his lap, stares straight ahead.

_I wonder what you’re thinking._

“What on earth is he really doing.” Jimmy mumbles without warning. The sound is almost enough to make Ali jump. “Come again?” he asks slightly irritated. Folds his arms across his chest. Looks out of the window, watches the red and white lights of cars going past the hotel on the road.

Wonders why he feels sick to his stomach.

“Oh, you heard me alright. I asked what _the fuck_ Stuart is up to. It’s already twenty minutes and still no sign of him. If this is another one of his stupid pranks and that Yorkshire pest is in on it, they’re going to get an earful.” Jimmy says with an exasperated grunt.

And, just like that, unplanned and uncalled for, but only partially because of his growing exhaustion and definitely very much deserved, Ali’s temper flares up again.

“I tried to keep a lid on it down in the hotel bar, but WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” Ali shouts and jumps up from the sofa. For a split second, he is torn, unsure whether he wants to throw something at Jimmy or kick the wall. Or anything else nearby. Anything that would let at least some of his anger out.

Eventually, Ali settles for a frantic, frustrated, angry stride back and forth on the soft – too soft – carpet. “I argued with Trev and Paul about keeping you around the lads, Jesus Christ! I told them that everyone (and definitely me, he thinks, but keeps to himself) could benefit from having you with us for this test, that you’re one of the guys everyone else looks up to and that injured or not, you’re one of the most important fucking members of this fucking side and if the unthinkable happens, you fucking deserved to be here to see it!”

Ali stops, digs the fingernails on his left hand into his palm. Grits his teeth. Fixes his gaze on a spot above Jimmy’s head. Can’t look him in the eye right now.

“And what the fuck do I get in return? Miserable pain in the arse James Anderson who, at thirty- _fucking_ -three, is still unable not to take one of his fucking frequent hissy fits out on other fucking people, unable to even get the basic fucking idea that someone could have been trying to diffuse the tension you fucking created by acting like an entitled fucking spoilt brat. Thanks a bunch, Jim. Really fucking helpful. Has it ever fucking occurred to you that I may be more than a little bit scared ahead of tomorrow?” Ali hisses. Feels the skin on his palms begin to burn. Has to remind himself to keep breathing.

“And you bloody think taking your bloody nerves out on me is going to make it any better?” Jimmy retorts. Quieter than Ali, but with that tone of voice Ali hasn’t heard in a while. Since that dreadful evening in Perth, 18 months ago, when he accidentally found out Swanny was planning to leave.

Quiet, cold fury. Only minutes, perhaps seconds, before Jimmy explodes as well.

Clenching his fists so tightly his knuckles turn white and his hands start shaking violently, Jimmy gets up from the bed. Takes half a step in Ali’s direction before stopping himself.

“I wasn’t even having a bloody argument with you, Ali! Stu was getting on my nerves! As bloody usual before the first day of an important test! He always does that, for fuck’s sake. He knows there’s a part of me that needs to be wound up if I’m going to be able to play well! And it’s the same fucking thing with him! You could have bloody well stayed out of this,” Jimmy shouts. “But of course, you never bloody do. You always have to take everything so godsdamned personal. Sure do think a great deal of yourself since you became captain.”

 

The words sting like a wasp accidentally being trodden-upon by a bare foot in summer.

Ali stumbles, briefly. Closes his eyes, tries to shake the memory that just reared its head again from his mind. _Calm down. That’s not Kevin. Jimmy wouldn’t even know that that’s the last thing Kevin ever said to me. During that ugly argument we had in March. But still. Doesn’t excuse his behaviour. At all._

“ _Take that back. Now.”_

Ali can count the number of occasions he’s had to use his captain voice with that undertone on one hand. It is really only his last resort, the most useful trick he has to get his point across without having to yell at someone. And usually, when he does it, the person in question very readily apologises. Laughs slightly awkwardly.

Unless that person is Jimmy Anderson in one of his less reasonable moods.

 

“Or what?” Jimmy retorts, both fists buried in his sides. Stares Ali down, doesn’t move an inch.

“Or I’ll fucking keep you out of the dressing room, tomorrow.” Ali says in a low voice.

“You’ve gone completely mental! Talk about being unable to listen to a reasonable bloody argument! I was just trying to explain myself, for fuck’s sake!” Jimmy snaps.

“You know what, I don’t have to listen to this any longer. I’m off to see Joe.” Ali says.

Knowing that that was probably the worst thing he could have gone with. At the same time, it is really the only reasonable option left for him. Before he does – or says - something that could jeopardise their entire relationship. Because Ali can feel the words, the words he has tried to keep to himself for so long, the words he will never even once say to Jimmy because Jimmy would take them completely the wrong way, starting to force their way out. Behind something that is already feeling like a giant lump in his throat.

“I should have fucking known.” Jimmy hisses. “I don’t know what the hell it really is between you and that interfering pest – and a Yorkie to boot, for fuck’s sake – but in case you’ve forgotten about last week, Joe has a boyfriend.”

Jimmy turns back to the wall. Does not want to hear the answer, panicked, all of a sudden. _What is it really with you two? What did I miss? Have you been … and that’s why…?_  Jimmy feels his entire body shake. Hears his own ragged, unsteady breathing. _I don’t want to know. I really don’t._

_Because you two would make so much more sense than we ever could._

A strangled half sob escapes Jimmy.

Ali stops in his tracks, halfway to the door. Turns around, shaking his head in disbelief and frustration. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.” He laughs, but without any hint of happiness. “You seriously honestly think I have a thing for Joe? That’s the reason, you think, that I’ve been spending so much time with him in recent months?” Ali sighs. “Honestly, if I didn’t know you any better and if I didn’t know you could be completely different, I’d think you’re a selfish entitled nightmare of a prat of a fucking eternally grumpy piece of work of a fucking professional cricketer.”

Ali looks for his key. “And where the bloody hell is my key … never mind. Listen to me. And I can’t believe I have to spell it out for you. Joe. Is. My. Friend. Perhaps my best friend, considering how much he’s been looking after me in recent months and how close we’ve become.” He brushes off the fond smile that threatens to overtake his features again. Glares at Jimmy instead.

“Because my actual best friend is currently more interested in giving me a fucking migraine than everything else I seriously need from him tonight. I’m off, Jimmy. See you tomorrow.”

 

Ali bends to open the door.

Before his left hand touches the handle, however, the lock clicks into place by itself. Muffled laughter and the sound of feet – two pairs of feet, going by the sheer noise of it, from outdoors.

“Just fucking brilliant.” Ali sighs.

“What the fuck was that?” Jimmy turns towards the door.

“I don’t bloody know.”

“Can they NOT play a prank on us for one single fucking night.” Jimmy’s shoulders slump in frustration. “But, don’t worry, I’m going to leave you alone in a second and … where for god’s sake is my key?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“I’ve just about had it up to here with those kids!” Jimmy yells before he can stop himself. “Banter’s all fair and square but not tonight, bloody hell! Not when I…”

“When you what.”

“Don’t you patronise me, Ali. Not in that fucking tone.”

“Hear who’s talking.” Ali retorts with a sarcastic laugh. “Would do you good to use your bloody words for a change. It’s a bloody NIGHTMARE trying to get any information out of you when you’re behaving this way. And…”

“If you could stop yelling at me for one fucking second,” Jimmy interrupts him, “I could get my phone and call reception. Get someone to let me out of the room and give your majesty some peace.”

“Mind acting your fucking age for more than a minute? I’ve just about fucking had enough of you tonight!” Ali shouts.

 

Jimmy sighs and takes his phone out.

“Calm down, will you? I’ll be out of here in less than ten minutes,” he says in a slightly softer tone.

Meets Ali’s eyes again.

“What’s really wrong with you tonight anyway? Why are you so furious with me?” Jimmy asks quietly. Worried, all of a sudden. He can not figure out the reason behind Ali’s temper. Which he is usually able to do within minutes. And that is enough to scare him.

 

“You really don’t know, do you?” Ali replies.

 

And sometimes, whole fortunes change. With the power of just one sentence.

When you least expect it.

 

It is dead quiet.

Silent.

Not a single sound from outdoors.

Not even the humming of the air condition.

 

Hazel brown eyes look into dark brown ones.

 

A minute passes. Perhaps even more.

 

The world seems to have stopped.

 

Gradually, almost in slow-motion, Jimmy starts to smile.

A disbelieving, bewildered, amazed smile.

“You … too?” he whispers.

His voice does not seem to want to follow his commands. He is shaking so badly it is all he can do to stay upright. Panicked, unbelievably frightened, he wants nothing more than to run away. To hide inside a cupboard (as long as that cupboard is free from fast bowlers from Durham and their silly antics). Until this is all over. And nothing else has happened. Has had the chance to happen.

It is so much worse than back in Saint Lucia.

_What if I just got it completely wrong?_

The thought paralyses Jimmy.

Makes him unable to do anything.

But stand there. And watch Ali.

_Come on. Say something. Do something. Please._

Jimmy’s heart is threatening to jump out of his body.

 

Ali keeps looking at Jimmy.

His cheeks feel as if they are on fire. His heart is pounding so hard he wonders if Jimmy can hear it.

And his mind is racing. Processing. Deducting.

An unbelievable, overwhelming, fantastic realisation pushes everything else to the back of his head.

 _I can only hope I’m right._ Ali briefly closes his eyes. Hopes against hope. Takes a deep breath.

“Yes.”

That was about the hoarsest, most unsteady croak he has managed in a while. Barely above a whisper.

 

Jimmy looks at Ali.

Ali looks at Jimmy.

And slowly, everything begins to dawn on them.

The tense, apprehensive, angry expression on Ali’s face changes.

Is replaced by an incredulous, beaming smile.

“I don’t … I never …” Ali whispers. As if he has almost forgotten how to speak. As if the only thing he can do right now is to stay right here. In this hotel room. With Jimmy.

Jimmy.

Who just answered the one question Ali never thought he would. That would always, forever, remain unresolved. Never to be spoken out loud for fear of damaging their friendship.

When, in fact all Ali had to do to find out, was to ask.

“I…”

 

Jimmy interrupts Ali.

Crosses the room in a few quick strides, stops barely a foot away from Ali. Gingerly, hesitantly, he takes Ali’s left hand. As if he is not sure whether or not he is allowed to do it. A shy smile lights up his face.

Ali laces his fingers through Jimmy’s, unusually clammy despite 24 degrees Celsius in the room.

Squeezes his hand. Moves a little bit closer to him.

Close enough to finally, for the first time, see Jimmy’s eyes properly. Those so familiar, comforting eyes. Shining with a light Ali never thought he would be able to see. A wide, proud and astonished grin. The most handsome grin Ali knows.

And a look that he’s definitely matching. Every single, overjoyed inch of it.

Jimmy’s index finger starts stroking the back of Ali’s hand. Sends shockwaves through his body.

“I…would very much like to kiss you right now.” Jimmy whispers.

“Then…” Ali makes several attempts. _What do you really say to that?_ He can’t focus. Can’t think about anything else. Just …

“What’s stopping you?” he replies softly. Swallows the laugh he felt forcing his way up his throat. _Not appropriate. Definitely not appropriate right now._

 

Jimmy, beaming in a way Ali doesn’t think he’s ever seen before, lifts his free hand to the back of Ali’s neck. Takes his other hand (and Ali’s hand with it), wraps it around Ali’s waist. Pulls Ali close, presses his hips against Ali’s. Closes his eyes.

A pleasantly spicy scent in the air. Jimmy’s aftershave, no doubt. Ali closes his eyes as well.

Allows himself to stop thinking.

Just feels. Everything.

 

A pair of warm, soft lips meet Ali’s.

And it is everything he ever thought – dared to dream, on the few occasions he allowed himself to dream about it – it would be.

As Ali returns the kiss, lets his free hand wander up Jimmy’s back to his shoulders, squeezes him as tight as he can, an entirely new firework seems to explode somewhere deep in his body.

Hands, Jimmy’s hands, start travelling down Ali’s back, start exploring the hem of his shirt.

Inquiring fingers slip underneath, stroke warm skin.

A tongue slips between Ali’s teeth. Followed, only a second later, by his own.

Ali feels Jimmy smile into their kiss as his entire lower back is taken over by goose bumps. Shivers. Grabs the back of Jimmy’s neck with one hand, pulls him in even tighter. Hears a soft unbelievably stunning moan escape Jimmy’s lips while his fingers card through the soft black hair, curl strands and let them go again.

Jimmy’s hands move to the front of Ali’s shirt, start unbuttoning the first two buttons.

Stroke the even softer skin on Ali’s collarbones.

 

“Wow.” Jimmy eventually manages.

Breaks their kiss, slightly breathless, gasping for air.

Doesn’t break the spell.

Remains where he is, only inches away from Ali. Feels as if his face is about to split from the wide joyful smile that has taken over his entire body.

“Wow.” Ali replies. Softly. Laughs slightly unsteadily.

Jimmy blinks rapidly. “I never … I never thought…”

“You don’t have to think right now,” Ali whispers. Wraps his arms around Jimmy’s body, pulls him to himself for another kiss. A shorter, softer one. But with every bit as much passion as their first.

“I … I’ve been keeping this to myself for such a long time.” Jimmy says in a shaking voice as they break apart again, one hand still on Ali’s left shoulder, the other hand gently touches his cheek. His thumb strokes over the soft coarse stubble.

“How long?” Ali whispers and plants a short peck on Jimmy’s nose.

An involuntary giggle escapes Jimmy. “Too bloody long, as I just found out.”

 

And Jimmy’s lips meet Ali’s again.

Ali (more bravely than he thought he would be) gently (at first) squeezes Jimmy’s buttock.

Is rewarded with a slightly louder and even more breathtakingly attractive moan.

“I could do this for hours.” Ali whispers against Jimmy’s neck as Jimmy holds him close, trying and failing to get his breathing under control. Feels Ali’s heart race.

_If only I had worked up the courage sooner. I… we could have been … not the time now._

“Me too. Or…,” and Ali is treated to the most stunning of shit-eating smiles that he has seen in nine years, “something else?” Jimmy suggests with a wink.

“What do you mean by… oh.” Ali laughs and Jimmy kisses his cheek. “You are so unbelievably adorably dense sometimes.” Jimmy takes Ali’s hand and leads him to the bed.

“But,” he points out as they sit down next to each other, “and this is important. I don’t want to do anything you don’t feel ready for.”

Ali simply smiles in return. Puts an arm around Jimmy’s shoulders and looks at him.

“We’ve got all night.” he says with a soft laugh.

And Jimmy kisses him.

 

It is a warm, overcast summer’s night in Nottingham.

The first day of the decisive fourth test is less than twelve hours away.

But at the moment, neither Ali nor Jimmy have a thought to spare for conditions, fielding set-ups and Australians right now.

Enough time to deal with everything tomorrow.

 

At the moment, they are lost.

Lost in the magic.

Of an extraordinary night.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/_pGaz_qN0cw
> 
> what else. really.


	17. An extraordinary morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when Ali and Jimmy thought they had experienced enough incredible surprises ... the first morning of the fourth Ashes test at Trent Bridge rolls around the corner.  
> Bringing an entirely different magic for everyone in the England dressing room. But especially for Stuart.

Faint light hints at an (yet another) overcast morning.

The perfect conditions.

Ali blinks once. Twice.

Usually, before the first day of an important test, he is wide awake long before sunrise. Stares out of the window, tries to get his overactive mind back under control and calm his nerves. Tells himself – as he has always done since that very first morning in Nagpur – “I know what I’m doing. I know why I’m here. I’m going to dig in and do my best.”

But something is different, today.

 

As a wide yawn stretches his jaw, making his eyes water for a second, Ali becomes aware of something else.

There is a hand.

No, an arm.

Around his waist.

Holding him. Comfortably, tightly.

Since when has that arm been there? Before he fell asleep? When did he actually fall asleep last night, for that matter? What exactly happened … _Oh._

Without warning, everything comes back to Ali at the same time.

An argument. One of their rare, but unusually intense fights, the pre-match tension finally coming to a head, spilling over into a shouting match.

 

And then – unexpectedly, joyfully, the last thing Ali ever thought possible.

A confession. Two confessions (if that is the right word).  Overdue. Still hard to believe. Hands, meeting again. Distances covered in what felt like a heartbeat. Tentative first touches. Lips, meeting each other for the very first time. An overwhelming joy as Jimmy pulled him close, as his hands started travelling down Ali’s back, as Ali’s own hands started threading through Jimmy’s hair. A veritable explosion of butterflies in his belly. More kisses, each a little more intense than the first. Laughs. Shirt buttons being opened with slightly unsteady fingers. Hesitant but excited hands, exploring, touching, squeezing. Kissing. So much kissing. Only stopped by whispered inquiries – “do you like that?”, “may I? you can say no, remember.” Entirely new sights. New experiences. New emotions. New discoveries.

And eventually, an arm around Ali’s waist. A lazy, sleepy kiss. A warmth against his back. And a whispered “sleep tight.”

_Did this really happen? Because, if it was a dream, I’d rather not wake up just yet._

Before Ali can decide what to do, however, a new shiver (far from the first since last night) runs down his spine as he feels a pair of lips brush the back of his neck, rain down soft, gentle kisses on his skin. The grip on his waist tightens slightly.

His heart dancing – there is no other word to describe it – Ali turns around. Very slowly (did he move at all during the night? His neck feels too sore for that). Excited beyond belief. Happy beyond belief.

The most stunning smile on earth greets him as his eyes refocus.

Shining hazel eyes look down at him. Another arm snakes around his neck, holds him at half an arm’s length. “Morning, Ali.” Jimmy says quietly. Beaming from one ear to the other. Shaking a bit, hardly able to believe his luck. _I’ve dreamed about this so often. And now … it wasn’t a dream. It really happened. And the way he looks at me … wow._

“Morning, Jim.” Ali replies softly. _I never heard myself sound that way before._

They look at each other.

Ali starts stroking Jimmy’s injured left side, his taut muscles, with his right hand. “Does that help?”

“You bet it does.” Jimmy knows he must be grinning like an idiot. But he could not care less. Not today. On what must be one of the happiest days of his life.

“Good.” Ali shuffles a bit closer. Wonders what he should do next, but Jimmy decides for him.

His left hand cups Ali’s jaw as their lips brush against each other. Softly, tenderly. Jimmy’s thumb strokes Ali’s cheek. Tongues briefly meet, tickle each other. Ali has to swallow a laugh.

Then, Jimmy breaks the kiss. Beams at Ali again.

“So…?”

“What?” Ali whispers. Slightly breathless.

They hold each other for a few minutes. Look into each other’s eyes.

It is completely silent.

And if Ali had any doubts about last night, they are erased as quickly as they appeared.

Because, sometimes, some things do not need words. Jimmy’s giggle confirms as much. _And I was racking my brains how to ask him. How to … well, I guess, we’ve answered it._

_We are dating._

At that thought, Ali snuggles up to Jimmy as close as he can. Rests his head on Jimmy’s chest while Jimmy wraps both his arms around him. Closes his eyes. Listens to Jimmy’s heartbeat.

_I never thought you could be so happy._

 

Suddenly, Ali’s phone alarm rings, making Jimmy jump.

And roll his eyes.

“Is it really time?” he grumbles softly while Ali reaches for the nightstand and switches the alarm off. “Guess so,” Ali laughs, slightly disappointed. “I … you know how it is. Today’s so incredibly important. I …” “That’s exactly why I’m glad nobody’s ever asked me to become captain.” Jimmy points out and plants a kiss on Ali’s shoulder. “But also why I’m glad it’s you. You’re doing a brilliant job. Have been for the past three years, not just in my opinion – although I may be slightly biased,” he adds with a wink and a flourish that makes Ali laugh. “Thanks.”

“Always. I know we’ll be fine. Belly thinks we’ve got it in the bag. And it’s hard to argue with someone who’s already won the thing four times.” Jimmy strokes Ali’s arm. “I know today’s intimidating. It always is. But…,” he briefly trails off, unsure how he should phrase it, “I’m here. Don’t forget that.”

Ali smiles at Jimmy and gives him a peck on the cheek. “I definitely won’t, not after last night.”

“Cheeky bugger.” Jimmy laughs. “You want to hit the shower first?”

“Why are you even asking?”

“Just being nice. Morning-after-etiquette and all that.” Jimmy replies elegantly.

Ali gives him a stare.

“Not like that, for god’s sake!” Jimmy hurries to point out.

“That was a last minute-escape, Jim.” Ali climbs out of bed, grinning widely and starts to look for his clothes, strewn all over the carpet. “I … wait a second.” He briefly stumbles as his bare foot suddenly touches something cold. “What on earth?” Almost in slow-motion, he steps aside and holds the object up so Jimmy can see it. “What are my keys doing on the…?”

Realisation dawns on both of them at the same time.

“I … I don’t believe it.” Jimmy sits up. “You mean, they …?”

“They knew. They knew and they were behind this. They…” Ali chuckles disbelievingly. “How on earth did they notice? And why…?”

“Those bastards.” Jimmy shakes his head fondly and gets up. Grins at Ali. “So… are we going to tell them? That their plan worked out, whatever it actually was?”

“No.” Ali replies.

“Why?” Jimmy kisses Ali’s cheek.

“It’s them. They need a little taste of their own medicine. Also … we have something more important to take care of, today. And … I’d really rather enjoy this on my own for a while before the lads find out.” Ali replies.

“Fine with me. But it’s not going to take them long.” Jimmy says.

“Think you’re right.” Ali goes to the bathroom and turns around on the spot as something hits him. “Nevertheless … wow. We owe them. Both of them.”

Jimmy simply smiles in return and scrambles to pick up his own clothes from the floor.

 

Showered (which, as it turns out, can also take a while when you have someone watching you) and dressed, Ali looks at his watch again. “Seven-twenty five. Almost time.” “You go down first. That way we don’t make anyone suspicious.” “Fair point.” Ali laughs and hugs Jimmy. Squeezes him. “I’m … still quite nervous. But Stu’s going to do great. I’ve had that feeling since training yesterday. And … I’ve got you.”

“You’ve always got me.” Jimmy says quietly and kisses Ali. “After you, captain.”

 

Unusually for the first day, everyone is already waiting downstairs when Ali steps out of the lift. “Morning, Chef,” Mo waves from the sofa. “Slept okay, I hope?” _More than okay, in fact._ Ali hides a grin and nods. “You too?” “Sure. Feeling great and can’t wait to get started.”

“You might have to,” Steve says from the entrance. “I just had a look outdoors; it’s definitely going to rain.” “So?” Ben replies with a shrug. “The wetter the pitch, the more swing we get.” He pats Stuart on the back. “Perfect conditions for you, mate.”

Stuart smiles back a little nervously and gets up to shake Ali’s hand. “Morning.” “You okay?” Ali asks quietly. “Not exactly. Been up since six, don’t think I slept more than four hours.” Stuart admits. “Don’t worry. You know this place better than anyone.” Ali squeezes Stuart’s shoulder. “Look at you being optimistic all of a sudden,” Stuart grins. “What’s going on?” _Is it what I think it is?_

_You’ll have to wait._ “Nothing,” Ali tells him. “Just looking forward to an exciting day.”

An amused sound coming from somewhere behind Ali makes him turn around. “Cookie monster, you’re different this morning.” Joe smiles and gives him an one-armed hug. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” _Although I can’t wait to say thank you. I know it was your idea. Last night._

Ali is spared any further replies by the sound of the lift doors opening and Jimmy, in his tracksuit, wandering across the lobby. “Morning, folks.” he says cheerily and high-fives Ben. “You ready to do it without me?” “You bet,” Ben gets up from his armchair. “After you, then.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy sees Stuart and Joe exchange a hilarious quizzical look and has to tell himself to think of something entirely different. _I won’t lift the suspense for you just yet. You unbelievably stupid silly lovely idiots. Besides, Stuart, mate, you have a job to do._

They file into the dining room, help themselves to plates, bowls and cups, filling up on muesli, toast and omelettes. Some, like Ian, keep to their routine, more superstitious than they’re willing to admit. Others, like Mo and Mark, try a little bit of everything.

Curious – not nervous – glances out of the window every so often. The sky has turned a miserable light grey, clouds hanging low over the street. _Brilliant, that’s going to be a rain delay,_ Ali realises while he waits for the coffee machine to pour his second espresso of the day. _Just perfect. How am I going to be able to avoid Jimmy for …?_

The butterflies in his stomach tell him that Jimmy must have thought exactly the same thing. Because, as Ali goes back to the table he shares with Stuart, Mark and Joe, Jimmy catches his eye and pulls such a comically disappointed face that Ali has to laugh. _I know,_ Ali tries to tell him. _We’ll find a way._

Jimmy smiles ( _I wish I could keep a mental image of that_ ) and finishes his muesli.

 

Before long, it is time. Kitbags, backpacks full of snacks, good-luck-charms and other helpful things, are loaded on the team bus, a last check if nobody has forgotten anything – and they are on their way.

As usual, Ali makes himself comfortable (as much as that word fits) in his customary seat at the back. Stares out of the window, at a warm rain leaving the asphalt glistening. His nerves are now back in full force. _Day 1. Everyone’s going to expect us to follow where we left off last week. We’re now favourites, at least according to the media. The exact last thing I wanted._

A hand squeezes Ali’s right hand. “Let’s hope this doesn’t take too long.” Joe whispers, sounds as tense as Ali feels. “I… how?” Ali replies softly. “I’ve known you long enough.” Joe states and gives Ali’s hand another short squeeze. “Headphones?”

But as soon as Joe has finished that question, the bus pulls up in front of Trent Bridge. “Here we go.” Ben announces. Even his customary confident tone is gone. “Let’s do this, lads.”

 

They carry everything into the dressing room – only the shortest of glances at Michael Clarke, who, unusually for him, seems to have arrived ahead of his team – settle in their usual favourite spots, Jimmy on the floor next to Steve and Ben. “I’m going to stay here until Trev kicks me out,” he tells Steve and takes out a bag of biscuits from his backpack. “Anyone want some?” “Thanks,” Steve grabs a handful.

“They are going to inspect the pitch in half an hour,” Trevor, who has just come back from a discussion with the umpires, announces. “How are you feeling, lads?” Fourteen more or less confident, slightly tense smiles. “Don’t worry. We have a good plan,” – that was mostly directed at Stuart – “you’ve been doing great in the series so far. And even without Jimmy, we have the upper hand. I’ve heard some interesting rumours from the Australian camp.” “Go on?” Mark sits up a little straighter. “Michael Clarke’s decided to retire. Apparently he told his senior players after Edgbaston.” Trevor replies with just a hint of a conspiratory grin. “A, you didn’t hear this from me. And B, I still expect you to concentrate on yourselves, first and foremost. Are we clear?” “Of course!” comes the chorus.

“Fine. Cooky, Joe, a quick word, please. The rest of you – keep yourselves busy. But quietly, okay? I’m going to tell you what’s happening as soon as I know.”

 

Ali and Joe follow their coach outside. “Are you okay?” Trevor asks both of them. “Ish.” Joe replies. “Nerves are starting to get to me a bit.” “That’s normal.” Trevor pats Joe’s shoulder. “You, Cooky?” “Likewise.” Ali tries to keep his expression as neutral as possible. Hopes their coach hasn’t noticed the same thing he just did – a very small, but visible lovebite behind his right ear, just about perceptible in the mirror hanging on the other wall of the corridor they’re standing in. Ali tries to hide his blush. “Anything on your mind in particular?” “Are you sure what you want to do in case you win the toss?” Trevor says.

“I think we should bat. We’ve always been better at setting a target, this series. Not wanting to interfere with Stuart’s personal plans, but he’s going to appreciate having a bit of a rest.” Ali replies. “I agree.” Joe says. “I’ve got a good feeling about today. Especially if what you heard about Clarke’s true.”

“That settles it.” Trevor tells them with a smile and puts a hand on both their shoulders. “Lads, you’ve done an excellent job so far. You’re a good team.” “Thanks, boss.” Joe says. “I’ll leave you to do whatever you always do before a match. I’m going to have a chat with Paul.”

“Headphones it is then.” Joe tells Ali while they watch their coach head off upstairs. “Of course.” Ali squeezes Joe’s arm. “Our usual playlist?” “Yes. But I’ve added something else last night.” Joe grins. “Jos’ idea?” “How did you notice?” Joe’s ears have turned slightly pink.

“I know you.” Ali replies in exactly the same warm, affectionate tone Joe used on the bus and opens the door. “After you, then.”

 

An expectant silence has settled over the dressing room, only punctuated by short quiet chats and glances at the clock (and every now and then, when Jimmy sees nobody’s paying attention, a very obvious smile in Ali’s direction that has Ali’s stomach doing cartwheels). “I’m going to have another look,” Mo offers after an hour. “It sounds like it’s stopped raining.”

Everyone watches him as he steps out onto the balcony. And returns as quickly as he can.

“Covers are off.” Mo announces to nobody in particular.

And the quiet, relatively calm dressing room erupts in a frenzy of activity. Ben and Mark pack away the balls they have been tossing around for the last thirty minutes. Jos bends down to pick up his bookmark from the floor, puts it on top of the page he just read and closes the novel. Ian gets up and starts his usual stretching routine.

A knock at the door. Trevor. “Cooky, toss is in five minutes.”

“Right lads, this is it.” Ali stretches and looks at his boys. “Remember what I said to you last week? I want you to play with freedom. Play to your strengths. Everyone. We’ve got a chance to etch our names in history and I know we can take it.”

He smiles at everyone in turn and puts on his blazer.

“We going to bat?” Ian asks while Ali takes a few deep breaths. “That was my idea.” Ali tells him.

“Perfect.” Stuart replies with a hint of nerves. “I get to put my feet up.”

 

Ali leaves the room. Waits for Michael Clarke to join him. A short “morning”.

Then, both captains walk out on the pitch to thunderous applause. A sold-out crowd. Not something you usually get for a first day. But there is a sense of something unusual in the still slightly fresh air. And… as Ali shakes the umpire’s hand and has a quick glance at the coin, an entirely new thought hits him. Briefly, hoping nobody else notices, Ali scratches the pitch with his left foot. Unusually wet. And …

“Heads.” the umpire announces. “Your choice, England.”

“We bowl.” Ali replies.

And there is a brief shiver down his spine. _What was that about?_

“All right. Have a good and fair game.  We start in twenty minutes.”

Ali and Michael shake hands. More applause. Cheers. The first chants from both sides.

 

Ali hurries back indoors. _I don’t even know where I got the idea from._

“So?” Ben greets him as soon as he is back in the dressing room. “I saw you win the toss. Ready to pad up?” All eyes are on Ali again. “No.” And he crosses the room, stops in front of Stuart. “We bowl first.” “What?” Stuart asks in a small voice. “Pitch’s quite wet.” Ali tells him. “Come with me.”

They step out on the balcony, Ali’s hand on Stuart’s shoulders. Feels his friend shake slightly. “I know that wasn’t the plan. But the pitch will suit you. Trust me. As I trust you.” He meets Stuart’s eyes. “I know you haven’t done this for a while. And I know you’re always more relaxed when Jimmy’s there with you. But Stu?” – “Yes?” – “You. Are. A. Brilliant. Bowler.” Ali tells him with a smile, emphasises every word. “And this is your home ground. And you just need one wicket to reach 300. That should tell you how good you are. Just keep doing what you’re always doing.”

“Thanks, Ali.” Stuart shoots him a grateful look. “I …”

“I’m taking over from here,” comes a voice from the doorway.

Jimmy. Smiling. Joins them, whispers in Ali’s direction to “go talk to the others, see you in 5 minutes”. Pulls Stuart into a hug. “Listen.”

 

Ten minutes to go.

Stuart and Jimmy, arms around each other, come back to the dressing room. “We’ve settled everything,” Stuart, more confident than before, announces and grabs one of the notepads and a pen from Ali’s backpack. “Lads, I want that fielding set-up for Rogers, okay?” He draws a quick sketch.

 

Jimmy gives a slight nod in Ali’s direction. _After you._

They hurry outdoors, turn a few corners, making sure nobody has followed them.

“Thanks for your help with Stu.” Ali takes Jimmy’s right hand, strokes his palm. “Always,” Jimmy says fondly. “He does that for me, so it was only natural that I returned the favour. We’re bowling partners, after all. And he’s my friend.” “And quite the partnership, you are.” Ali replies affectionately.

They share a look.

“You’ll smash it.” Jimmy tells Ali. Snakes an arm around Ali’s waist. “That’s what I needed to hear.” Ali says with a soft laugh.

“I know.” Jimmy lets his free hand rest on Ali’s right cheek and gives him a short kiss. “I’ll stay on the balcony. You know where to find me.”

“Cookie monster?”

“Oh gods, not again.” Jimmy rolls his eyes fondly. “I’ll leave you to it.” He quickly squeezes Ali’s buttock, making Ali blush furiously. And wanders off in the direction of the toilets.

 

“There you are.” Joe hurries over to Ali. “I … everyone’s ready.”

“Good.” Ali says with what he hopes isn’t too silly a grin. “You?”

“Yes.” Joe gives Ali a determined smile and hugs him.  “We’re doing this.”

 

As the first strands of “Jerusalem” ring out across the ground and Ali leads his team out – the sky is still quite grey, although a little more promising than before – Jimmy pulls up a chair on the balcony. Is not sure whether he should sit – probably wiser, considering his injury – or stand, in case he misses anything important on the pitch. Eventually, he settles into a sort of uneasy crouch. Looks down on the two teams, exchanging the customary handshake. Lets his eyes wander until he meets Stuart’s, gives him a wink. _You’ll do fine, Stu. I know it. These are as much your conditions as they are mine._

A minute’s silence.

Chris Rogers and David Warner bump gloves and walk into the middle. Mark tosses Stuart the new ball. The England team take their positions on the field. _Five slips?_ Jimmy realises with a laugh.

Stuart goes through his routine – three jumps, three stretches, three throws with the ball. _Ready._

_Here we go._ Ali and Joe exchange a smile and crouch down in the slips.

 

Three balls in.

Stuart, going for a slightly different approach, hits a beautiful angle. The ball fizzes past Chris Rogers … and Ali simply has to hold out his right hand to catch it. Australia 4-1. In the first over. A delighted pile of England players, everyone determined to high-five and hug Stuart. Who is just about starting to smile. _Three hundred wickets. Magical figures._

Up on the balcony, Jimmy salutes Stuart, laughing. _I wish I was down there, with you. Never mind. I’ll be on the field for your 400 th. _

 

Two balls later.

Cheers ring around the ground as Stuart runs in again. “You can’t tell me they’re going to fall for …” The subsequent “YES!” from the balcony is loud enough to carry down to the pitch. “Jimmy, who else?” Stuart beams and pats Joe, who took the catch for his second wicket – second wicket, in the first over! – on the back. Ali affords himself the briefest of smiles ( _I have a job to do, for god’s sake_ ) and gives Stuart a short hug. “You okay if Mark takes the next one? Get a rest.” “Sure.” Stuart grins.

 

Eighty-five miles an hour. The ball hits the perfect line, brushes past David Warner’s edge – and into Jos’ outstretched gloves. Ten for three. Mark’s speed was no match for the experienced Australian opener. For the third time in not even ten minutes, the England fielders become yet another pile of arms, hands and cheers. “That was excellent, Woody!” Ben tells Mark with a proud grin. “Thanks! I never thought it ….”

“Clarke’s coming!” Ian interrupts them, yelling to make himself understood. Did Ali just laugh? “Brilliant. They’re getting scared.” notes Joe as everyone in a blue cap turns to watch the Australian captain tightening his shin guards and taking position on the field.

Ali briefly glances up at the balcony. _I … what on earth is happening today?_

_I don’t have an idea either,_ Jimmy tells him with a (faint) shrug and a smile. A smile that throws Ali off balance once again. _If you were down here with us … I think we’d have made everyone suspicious right now. But I really rather …_

_Alastair Nathan Cook, get a grip on yourself, there’s an actual bloody test match going on around you,_ a second voice at the back of his mind scolds him. Swallowing a chuckle, Ali crouches down again.

“Pinch me, Trev!” Jimmy shouts and high-fives their coach. “They must have realised that’s what Stuart’s bowling today!” “You’d think so,” Trevor laughs, while on the field – and the game has not even been going on for half an hour – Stuart celebrates his third wicket of the morning.

What a morning. Extraordinary isn’t even beginning to cover it.

“What’s going on?” Jos keeps repeating, over and over again, an incredulous proud smile lighting up his face. “Anyone? Am I dreaming?” “Don’t think so,” Ian pats Jos’ back, trying and failing to keep a neutral expression. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

_Neither have I._ A shiver runs down Ali’s spine. Fifteen for four, the Australian figures have steadily gone from bad to worse. Even if – and this being Australia, that’s always more than possible – Adam Voges and Michael Clarke recover, steady their innings, there is no chance that … _we have the upper hand. We’ve got them._ Ali closes his eyes. _Could this actually be it?_

Barely eight minutes later.

Stuart hears the ball hit Adam Voges’ bat and – almost in slow-motion – sees a figure in white diving to his right, arm stretched out behind him … and the ball sticks. In Ben’s right hand. Ben jumps up, shouts something – imperceptible over the newest explosion from the stands – and waves his hand aloft in triumph.

“OH MY GOD.” A gasp, more than a shout. Stuart clasps his hands over his mouth, shaking from head to toe, as the England fielders run into each other’s arms again, everyone eager to hug Ben, heap compliments on him. “That was amazing!” Jos tells Ben in a slightly wavering voice. “I… wow.” Rapidly blinking, he quickly hugs Joe.

“Let’s watch the replay.” There’s a glint in Ali’s eyes, something the others haven’t seen in a long time.  They turn around to face the video screens and everyone laughs as they see Stuart’s amazed expression in high-definition. “Nice face, Broady.” Ian affectionately punches him in the side. “What was I supposed to do?” Stuart only half complains. Catches Jimmy’s eye and winks. “Let’s get Pup next!”

 

And they do so, a beautiful curve ball from Stuart, Clarke mishits it completely, and Ali jumps up to make a catch with both hands. “He never – NEVER – did that for me!” Jimmy complains to whoever’s listening, but his wide grin gives him away.

What an unbelievable morning. Not even lunch and the Australians are 6 wickets down. _I’ll never question your judgement again, Ali._ Jimmy takes a bite off one of his muesli bars and smiles to himself. _And I can’t wait for lunch._

Beaming, Stuart holds the ball up to the crowd, trying and failing to keep his emotions in check. _A five-fer in the first ten overs. Does it get any better? Probably not. No time to think, though._ _We’ve still got four to go. And this, as Ali would say, is still Australia._

 

To everyone’s slight disappointment – at least to the ecstatic crowd’s – there is a longer gap between this wicket and the next. And it’s Steve this time, hitting the left stump behind Peter Nevill.

“I’m so sorry, Cooky!” Ian says grinning. “I never thought this would work! Also – I really think Stuart wants to go on again.” And there’s no mistaking the blond-haired, waving figure with the giant white hat jumping up and down at the other end of the pitch.

“Get a grip on yourself, Stu.” Jimmy grumbles affectionately.

Joe looks across to Ali. Sees his own disbelieving smile reflected back at him. _Wow. We really could … maybe we’ll seal it this morning? In the first session?_

The sun is just starting to make its way through the clouds. _The sun – and something urn-shaped behind it,_ Jimmy thinks and grins. _This is it. This is going to be it._

 

Mitchell Starc becomes Stuart’s sixth victim of the morning. “Can we play you every week?” rings out from the crowd – more laughter, more cheers, even more applause. Joe meets Stuart’s double-thumbs up with a double-thumbs-up of his own. High-fives, pats.

Starting a test on the field, let alone an Ashes test, is always a bit of a gamble. But on this morning, it’s a gamble that has paid off.

_And it has paid off so unbelievably well. This has really been the most extraordinary of mornings._ There is a small lump in Ali’s throat. He quickly swallows. Grits his teeth. _Is that even possible?_

“You’re gonna have to bat before lunch!” Ian tells Ali.

Ali simply nods. Is already starting to think about his approach to their first innings.

 

As Mitchell Johnson falls to another Stuart classic, at least, that’s what an exhilarated Jos has begun calling them, Ali just gives him a short high-five. Seven for eleven. Bowling figures nobody among them has seen since their days in age-group cricket. Forty-seven for nine, there is every chance the Australians will not even be able to reach double figures.

“You ready?” Ali asks Adam while everyone around them takes a quick sip from their water bottles. “Yep. Never thought we would have to. But ready. Let’s set them a big target.” Adam replies with a confident grin.

Sixty. Sixty all out.

Eight for 15.

For a short moment, everyone stops, processes the result. Ben, who has taken the catch for Stuart’s eight wicket, throws the ball back to him. “After you,” he says and bows. “Stuart … wow.” Mo bumps fists with him. “That was a masterclass.” “Can you tell me how you did this?” Jos asks with a wide proud smile. “I don’t know,” Stuart replies, his voice more unsteady than he thought.

“We’re off,” Ali shouts in Stuart’s direction as he sprints past with Adam following on his heels. _No time to waste. We need to … we have to survive the first few overs. And then it’s lunch. Lunch. And the Australian first innings is over already. Incredible._

“Go well!” someone – has to be Joe – shouts behind him. Ali smiles briefly and hurries upstairs.

Stuart holds the ball in his right hand. Closes his eyes. Feels tears threatening to break out as one shiver after the other runs down his back. _Never. Not in my wildest dreams._

Swallowing hard, he closes his fingers around the red leather ball, holds it aloft and leads his teammates from the field. Eight. Eight for 15. At his home ground. There are no better feelings than this.

_I’ll never forget today;_ he promises himself and crosses the boundary rope.

Feels Jimmy look down at him, tilts his head, sees a proud beaming grin. _Unbelievable,_ Jimmy mouths, laughing, shaking his head.

_Job done. Time to put my feet up._

 

The others come back to find their opening batsmen already padded up, doing a few last-minute stretches. Stuart still holds the ball in his hand. “Did this really happen?” he asks nobody in particular. “I think it did.” Ian side-hugs him. “That was something special, Stu.”

“Not now, lads,” Ali tells them. “I know you want to talk about it – I do as well – but we haven’t won anything yet. Keep your feet on the ground, please. I know it’s hard,” he grins at everyone, “but give it a try, okay? We still have a couple of overs before lunch. It’s still too early.”

“Fair point, Cooky,” Mark pats Ali’s shoulder. “Off you go then, chase sixty!”

Laughter erupts around them. “Oh we can do that,” Adam replies elegantly. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

 

Three overs – just three – later, the umpires signal for lunch.

This time, Adam and Ali take their time to walk back to the pavilion. Enjoy the sun warming up the grass, listen to the chants from the crowd. “Just fifty-two to go,” Adam laughs at Ali. “And hopefully, a couple of hundred more,” Ali joins in his laughter.

Finally, it starts to sink in.

While they walk past the excited members of Nottinghamshire County Cricket Club, everyone shouting encouragements and praise, holding hands out for a high-five, Ali feels his nerves beginning to ease.

What a morning.

What a spell of bowling.

Everything is just about falling into place.

_Unless something unlikely happens …._ But Ali doesn’t want to finish the thought right now. _Not yet. It is still only lunch and only the first day._

_But now … I finally get to see Jimmy again._

Ali looks up at the balcony. The faintest of shit-eating grins meets him. “Coffee, in about twenty minutes?” Jimmy shouts, trying to sound as normal as he possibly can. “Coffee.” Ali shouts back. His heart skips a beat. _And … something else,_ he thinks and feels his cheeks beginning to burn yet again. _Because …_

As soon as he is back in the dressing room, however, he is distracted from the very inappropriate and yet so unbelievably pleasing mental images that smile has just conjured up.

It is unusually quiet. The others stare at Joe. Whose cheeks have just taken on the colour of the fire extinguisher behind him. “What’s up?” Ali mouths, but only gets a bashful giggle as reply. “You…?”

“Say that again, Joe,” Mo tells him with just a hint of a laugh. “You’re dating who?”

There is another silence.

And then, to everyone’s astonishment, Jos, who has just stored away his gloves in his kitbag, crosses the dressing room and takes Joe’s hand. “Me.” he says confidently, beaming at Joe.

Yet another bashful giggle.

Silence.

“Oh … okay!” Mark laughs. “Now I see it.”

“That’s why you …?” Mo turns towards Jos, grinning. “And I was wondering why.”

“You don’t have a problem with it, lads?” Jos asks slightly anxiously.

“Why on earth should we,” Ian replies and ruffles Jos’ hair. “Happy when you’re happy.”

The others nod in agreement. “Just one thing, please, lads,” Adam, taking off his pads, tells them with a mischievous smile. “I don’t want to walk in on you. Okay?”

At which point, everyone bursts into laughter again – especially Joe. Who, Ali doesn’t doubt it, thinks back to the end of the fourth day at Edgbaston. And … _Couldn’t help myself,_ Joe tells Ali with a shrug and a grin. _We just couldn’t pretend any longer._

Ali winks. _Your choice. And see – we’ve got a good bunch of lads, in this team. No need to be scared. Which is true for us as well. When they eventually find out._

 

“What’s everyone having for lunch?”

Trust Ben to change the subject.

“I… well, Stu, you really should order first.” Mo says. “Give me a second … Jimmy!”

The door to the balcony has opened once again, revealing an unusual sight – Jimmy, beaming and looking as happy as nobody has seen him for a while. “Come here, Stu,” he says fondly.

And the two fast bowlers embrace in the middle of the dressing room. To just a few faint chuckles and “aww”s, mostly coming from Ben and Ian.

“Well done,” Jimmy whispers. “Told you you could do some magic of your own.”

Stuart pats Jimmy’s back. “Wish you had been down there as well.”

“I was. In a way. Glad I could see it.” Jimmy replies affectionately.

Arms still around each other, they look at each other with matching wide grins. “So, Jim, what did you make of our first innings?” Mark asks. “And more importantly, what do you want for lunch?”

 

While Ian and Joe’s younger brother Billy, getting, as he put it, “the best kind of exercise” as twelfth man, going by the sheer amount of times he had to run out on the field this morning, join the lunch queue, Ali takes off his shoes. Relaxes. Only pays a cursory attention to the very loud bowling discussion that broke out around him, together with a very copious amount of sledges in the Australians’ direction.

_Is this what you meant, Straussy, when you told me I’d know? I’d know when I’d get everything right? Because I really rather think I have._

Only a very familiar “oi!” breaks through Ali’s thoughts. Laughing, he catches the muesli bar Jimmy throws in his general direction. “Thanks,” he replies with a smile Jimmy can’t misunderstand. Raises his wrist, points at the figures of his brand-new blue watch. “Ten minutes?” Jimmy nods and grins. Feels the butterflies dancing around his entire body.

 

Lunch is over in a blur. While everyone around him packs up their belongings and heads out to secure a spot on the balcony – preferably with a good view, Joe looks at his watch again. “Where on earth is he,” he ponders under his breath. “Adam’s just about ready and we …”

“Sorry, Joe.”

A hand on his back makes Joe jump. “Ah, there you …”

Whatever else Joe wanted to say dies in his throat as he looks at Ali properly. And is met with a very unusual sight. Ali’s usually so immaculately combed soft black mop of hair is tousled, more than slightly messy. His white shirt sits slightly lopsidedly on his shoulders. And there’s an unusually glassy, somewhat absent-minded smile on Ali’s face. Joined by a very tiny, almost imperceptible reddish spot on his neck and … _where’s Jimmy, by the way?_

_Oh._

The wheels in Joe’s mind click into place.

_Coffee? As if, mate._ It takes him a considerable effort not to laugh. _I don’t believe it. But … as you would rightly say, now’s not the time to talk about it. We have a job to do. And it’s your choice to tell me._

Smiling warmly, Joe holds out his arms and hugs Ali.

“Go well. I’m with you.”

_And if I’m not wrong … I’m incredibly happy for you as well._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u5FyRZbqfeM
> 
> I'd suggest listening from the moment the game starts.


	18. Redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August 8, 2015.  
> 18 months of hurt, of challenges, of tests, of almost wanting to give up, come to a conclusion.  
> Stumps are sent flying.  
> Redemption.
> 
> A/N: If I made you cry - sorry, not sorry. :D

At first, Ali is not sure if he just imagined the soft knock at his door.

Yawning, he stretches and rubs his eyes, hoping he did not accidentally hit Jimmy, snuggled up with both arms around him.

A very unmistakeable snore puts this concern to bed.

 _Jim. Takes you forever to shut up at night, but once you’re asleep, they could set off fireworks next to you and you wouldn’t notice. Except …_ and Ali has no doubt there is a very telling, very silly smile on his face right now … _except you couldn’t exactly call that “talking.” What we did last night. I … wow. I guess it’s still going to take me a while to get used to. That we’re actually finally … It’s still so new. But so incredibly fascinating._

Another knock. A glance at his alarm on the nightstand. Six-thirty, the red figures tell him.

Grinning, Ali extracts himself from Jimmy’s arms, gets up and goes to grab his running kit from the wardrobe. _I really should have known. You’re always very much on time._

One last fond smile towards the curled-up figure in the bed, a double knot in his shoelaces, a – where did he leave his headphones yesterday morning? oh, in the bathroom, of course – and Ali slips his keys into his shorts pocket and closes the door behind him as quietly as he can.

 _Don’t make him suspicious. He’s a bit more perceptive than you’d think,_ Ali tells himself before he turns around. An affectionate smile greets him. One Ali has no doubt he’s matching. _I don’t know how you do it, but it always makes me happy. Seeing you, I mean._

“Morning, Cookie monster.” Joe says and they exchange a quick hug. “Slept okay?”

_Don’t let him know you can see that brand-new reddish-blue spot just above his collarbone._

“Sure. For once. And you?” Ali squeezes Joe’s arm.

“Not much.” Joe admits quietly. “Why?” Ali looks at him, concerned.

“I…” Joe bites his lower lip. “Let’s go. I’ll tell you on the way down. We only have 75 minutes this morning.” They set off.

In the middle of the staircase, Ali stops. “So?” he asks softly. “What happened?”

_You know you can always tell me._

Joe grins a bit sheepishly. “That nightmare you told me you had before the final day at Edgbaston? That the Aussies would have a famous last stand like Jimmy and Monty did back in Cardiff? And everything would turn to …? Turns out that stuck in my mind a little better than I’d have liked.”

“Oh no,” Ali replies sympathetically and hugs Joe. “Sorry about that. We … we’ll just have to trust in Stu.” “Oh that’s easy.” Joe points out with a proud grin. “I still can’t believe that first innings.” “Neither can I. Or Stu himself for that matter.”  Ali says.

They share a look.

“You know this is very likely going to be the last day?” Joe tells Ali as they continue their walk downstairs. “That, weather and our attack permitting, it could all be over today and we…” He trails off.  Feels goosebumps on his arms. Swallows.

 _You are right._ A shiver runs down Ali’s spine. _I … I was so busy with our match plan that I pushed it to the back of my mind. And with something entirely different_ (stop grinning, Alastair, otherwise Joe will find it out).

_But you’re absolutely right. Today could be the day. After 18 months._

_Not helpful,_ Ali scolds himself while they leave the hotel and have their usual look at the sky. _Still three wickets to go. I … I can’t let myself get carried away._

_Yet._

“Park, to the pond, three rounds, then back?” he suggests instead.

Joe considers his answer. “30 minutes each way. That’s good.” Playfully, he punches Ali’s right shoulder – _I’d never dare do this to that left arm of yours_ – and grins. “After you then.”

They set off, wind in their hair, the songs on their playlist – out of superstition, they did not change a single song since Tuesday – providing their usual comfort and distraction.

The weather is still very overcast, but a bit warmer than the day before. _Our conditions,_ Ali thinks while they run past a couple of startled ducks sheltering under a bench in the park.

 

Which brings his mind back to his Australian counterpart.

_Is he really going to retire? It wouldn’t surprise me. He must … well, he must be as desperate as I was 18 months ago. Being captain is a fantastic job. Unless everything seems to slip from your grasp at the same time. And you’re not sure where to start. Or if there’s anything you actually could do._

_I can’t help but feel for him._

Ali resolves to seek Michael out for a quiet word after the game has ended. He may be one of Ali’s fiercest rivals and they had more than their fair share of incidents (Michael better be glad Ali didn’t hear that snap in Jimmy’s direction about a “broken fucking arm” or Ali would have risked a fine on the spot). But – how did Straussy put it during one of their many conversations shortly before he retired?

“The captains’ club is a privileged club, Cooky. You’ll find out for yourself very soon. It’s … make use of it as best as you can. Other captains … they’ll understand you on a level nobody else can. So make sure you’ll get along with them. Even if they’re Australians.”

_Same goes for your vice-captain,_ Straussy did not say. But he must have thought it. Ali is sure of that. Because, as he watches Joe complete his last lap of the duck pond, he is hit with another intense wave of affection for his young second-in-command. One, Ali has no doubt, Straussy occasionally had for him as well.

Mischievous and playful Joe may be – and sometimes a bit too much to handle when Mark has roped him in for one of his elaborate tricks (Ali still is not sure where, and more importantly when, they managed to sneak green food colouring into the hotel).

But that is not everything there is to him. Underneath the almost permanent smile or laugh, there is a quiet, shy, reflective and very compassionate young man. Unapologetic in his affections, always there for a chat, some advice or just a quiet hour listening to music. Seems to understand Ali almost without words. _We’re so alike in so many ways._

 _You’ve really become my best friend._ _I need to tell you that today. After we’ve done the job._

 

A hand on Ali’s right shoulder.

“You okay?” Joe smiles.

“Sure. Race you?” Ali offers.

“On my mark – and whoever’s last owes the other an ice-cream.”

“Done.”

Laughing, Ali and Joe sprint back to the hotel.

And Ali beats Joe by half a minute.

“That’s bound to be a good omen.” Joe gives Ali a congratulatory pat on the back. “Won’t forget your ice-cream, I promise! Just let me know what you’d like.” “I’ll tell you tonight, okay?” Ali looks Joe directly into the eyes. “We have something to take care of, first.”

Joe holds Ali’s gaze. “And we’ll get it done.”

Ali hugs him. “See you at breakfast. Have fun trying to wake Jos up!”

“Likew… I’ll do my best!” Joe replies with another laugh. _Stopped myself just in time._

There is an unusual streak of light under the door when Ali returns to his room. _He’s up?_

And surprisingly, Jimmy is sitting in bed, a book on his lap, obviously engrossed in the story. _That’s .., did you just help yourself to the novel I’m reading? Even though you said “all crime stories are exactly the same” when you saw it on my nightstand yesterday?_

_Oh Jim._

Ali chuckles to himself and Jimmy looks up.

“Oh. Hi.”

A wide beaming smile. _I’ll never get tired of that sight. It’s … you are just …_

Before he can think of a fitting adjective, Ali has already crossed the room and climbed back into bed. Jimmy puts the book down on the blanket.

Ali wraps his arms around Jimmy’s neck. “Morning,“ he whispers.

Their lips meet.

Jimmy’s hands wander up Ali’s neck, fingers play with strands of Ali’s hair.

“I …” Ali pauses to catch his breath after they break apart, arms still around each other. “You know what I’d really want to do right now.” “Oh?” Jimmy cocks an eyebrow and grins mischievously. “I…” Ali blushes again. “No time for that, unfortunately.” He points at his alarm. “Breakfast’s in 15 minutes.”

Jimmy puts on a very comical pout. “So? 15 minutes is more than … But you’re right. Let’s save it for tonight. Although I _am_ very curious.” He kisses Ali’s nose, eliciting an involuntary soft giggle.

 _Never knew you could be this cute,_ Jimmy thinks as a pleasant warmth spreads all around his body.

“You’re just going to have to be patient,” Ali winks at Jimmy and goes to the bathroom. “Having a shower … _alone, get it?”_

“Stop captaining for a second.” Jimmy complains and puts the novel back on Ali’s nightstand. “It’s me, remember?”

“That’s my job, James!” Ali calls from the bathroom and turns the shower on.

_My job. That I may be better at than I give myself credit for._

The atmosphere in the dining room (thank god they decided to have a room to themselves this morning) is electric. Fifteen quietly excited faces grin at Ali as he makes his way to their table (Jimmy wisely left a couple of minutes earlier).

“Morning, Cooky,” Mark says to Ali. “Coffee?” “Oh yes, thanks.” “Help yourself, it’s in that red coffee pot. I ordered some for everyone.” “Thanks, Woody.”

“Cooky?”

“Yes, Jonny?”

“We’re having a bet; do you want in?”

“Depends.” Ali replies after a mouthful of pleasantly warm coffee. “What’s it about?”

“Oh,” Jonny says with a nonchalant shrug, “just how long it’s going to take us to clear everything up today. Woody keeps telling us it’s gonna be before lunch.” “And why shouldn’t it be?” Mark grins. “They’ve been on the ropes since lunch on Thursday. We’ve got them.” “I agree,” Steve joins in. “There’s no way they can come back. Not today. You don’t recover from such a magical spell of bowling…” – at which, Ali, surprised, registers that Stuart is trying to hide a blush.

“Anyway, you in?” Jonny interrupts Steve.

_I … no. Not yet._

“Sorry, Jonny. Don’t want to jinx it,” Ali replies and ignores the tingling in his lower back as he feels fingers brushing his shirt and a quiet voice above his right ear says “toast?”

 

Chatting, laughing, they quickly finish their breakfast.

 

 _I haven’t seen us like that in a while,_ Ali realises. _We… you’d think it was certain. That nothing could happen that would throw us off course. That we’ve already …_

“Doesn’t look like rain,” Trevor tells his boys while they get onto the bus. Even his usual professional, matter of fact - voice has changed, there is more than a hint of anticipation behind it. “Perfect.” Stuart replies and stretches. “Who’s going on first, Ali?”

“Keep calm, we’ll tell you after we had a look at the pitch,” Joe tells him in Ali’s stead from the back of the bus. Hands Ali his right earpiece. “Right … that’s the best song for now.”

 

The bus arrives at Trent Bridge, accompanied by chants and applause so loud they can already hear them as they come down the road. “It’s packed,” Mark announces to everyone and rubs his hands giddily. “Why wouldn’t it be? I mean – would you miss it?” Mo says while he gets up. “Definitely not.” Mark agrees. “I’m already having shivers, lads,” Ben admits, grinning widely. “Better get used to it.” Ian laughs and pats Ben’s arm. “It’s going to happen. I don’t know when, but it’s going to happen. It’s just three wickets.”

_Just three wickets._

_Belly’s right._

Ali closes his eyes for a second. Thinks back to another sunny August day, almost exactly two years ago. How the anticipation had been building steadily in the slips, how they tried to keep their excitement under wraps during the final overs, how every ball had brought a split-second of “this is it”.

And how, after Jimmy took the final catch, everything seemed to stop for an instant. How Ali had been unable to think anything. Had just tried to take it all in while around him, his teammates – his boys – were jumping up and down, embracing, running into each other’s arms. Until, eventually, Jimmy tackled him with a flying hug.

_Here we are again. Almost exactly two years later. The weather’s even quite similar. I … I never thought I’d be able to experience this quite so soon. Not after …_

“Cookie monster?”

_Thanks, Joe. I can’t afford to make myself think like that. Yet._

“Yes, Joey?” Ali turns around and smiles at Joe.

“I … we’ve got everything in place.” Even Joe’s voice seems a little unsteady. “Paul’s waiting for us. Let’s have a look at the pitch, we’ve still got 20 minutes before we have to start the warm-up.”

“Right, thanks. I was just …”

“I know.” Joe takes Ali’s left hand, gives him a quick reassuring squeeze. “Wow, your fingers are cold. I … let’s get on with it. I don’t want to make myself think too much.”

“Speaking my mind.” Ali squeezes Joe’s hand in return. “Let’s go. Don’t want to keep Paul waiting.”

 

Their assistant coach is already waiting in front of the pitchside entrance.

“You okay, boys?” Paul asks.  Ali shrugs and Paul gives him a grin, full of understanding. “I know. Don’t forget, you had a brilliant first two days. We’ve set everything up nicely. Just treat it like…” “An ordinary test match,” Joe finishes Paul’s sentence and laughs. “I know. And that’s sound advice, thank you, Farbs. Still…”

Paul nods and puts an arm around both their shoulders. “I believe in you.”

The stands are already almost full as they step out. “Looks a bit spicy,” Joe says in Ali’s direction. “I think… Stuart to take the first over? And then we rotate between him, Ben and Mark?”

Ali inspects the grass. “Makes sense … but…”

“Yes?” Paul asks in a friendly way.

“Don’t forget, the Aussies know Stuart quite well. He made sure of that two days ago. I’d … I’d hit them with another surprise. Let’s start with Ben.” “Good idea,” Paul replies, surprised. “They have no idea how to react to him, we saw that yesterday.”

“Settled?” Ali turns to Joe.

“Fine with me.” They bump fists – after so many hours in batting partnerships, it has become one of their go-to reactions.

“I’ll see you in 10 minutes for the warm-up. And before anyone asks, I’m refereeing.” Paul tells Ali with a wink. “Oh, thank goodness.” Ali laughs. “That’s bound to be the first day we won’t have an argument during football, then.”

“He’s definitely had a talk with Trevor.” Joe grins while they walk back to the dressing room.

 

Ali’s instinct proves to be right. Paul turns out to be a strict, but fair referee.  For the first time during this series, their pre-match kickabout (every single pass is accompanied by cheers and more than a few shouts of “Olé” from a cheerful crowd) finishes without a complaint.

 

“Half an hour to go.” Ali tells the dressing room while everyone is changing into their kit. “Lads, listen. I know it’s only three wickets. And I know we’ve been having a brilliant game so far. Just don’t lose focus, please? Anything could happen. I don’t want you to go out into the middle thinking we’ve already done it. I want you…,” he pauses, tries to avoid Jimmy’s eyes because he can just about feel the intensely proud smile Jimmy is watching him with, “I want you to keep doing what you’ve been doing. Especially you, Stokesy. You bowled excellently yesterday. Keep hitting them with everything you can.” Another pause – where is that lump in his throat coming from? _Not yet, for god’s sake._

Joe winks at Ali. _Should I take over?_

Ali nods gratefully.

“Lads,” Joe draws himself up to his full height and grins. “We could do something special. Let’s make sure we’ll never forget today, okay?”

Determined grins and high-fives.

“Perfect.” Joe picks up his headphones. “We’re off.” Wanders over to Ali. “Out?” “Yes.”

 

Ali follows Joe onto the balcony. They settle down in their usual spot, have a look into the stands where, going by the noise, a very raucous party seems to be going on. “I wonder how they’re doing.” Joe says and puts an arm around Ali’s shoulders. Ali leans a little bit closer. “Doesn’t take much imagination, for me. I went to watch that legendary game in Edgbaston ten years ago.” “That one?” Joe stares at Ali, wide-eyed. “Jealous.” “Yep, back then I had a little more free-time than now.” Ali laughs. “Graham got Ravi and me tickets and we saw it together. I’ll never forget the celebrations after Harmy’s yorker.”

Joe busies himself with the song library on his iPod. “Me neither.”

“Anyway, that was the first time I really understood our supporters. Because … most of these people down there probably never held a bat in their lives. But they care. They care about us. They want to see us do well and win things. And that’s what I’ve been trying to keep in mind.” Ali takes a deep breath.

Smiles at Joe as he hears the familiar strands of “My Silver Lining” through his right earpiece.

“You..?”

“Of course.” Joe replies with a faint smile. “It’s kept us company over the last 9 months.” He rests his head on Ali’s shoulder, hands closed around a small white object (the pebble Ali found for him last December, probably).

_And this really could be our silver lining._

A fresh shiver down Ali’s spine.

_Just half an hour to go._

An almost inaudible rap on the windows. Ali turns around and sees Jimmy holding up a hand. “Five minutes?” he mouths and Jimmy nods. “Okay then.” Ali blows through. “Almost time.”

Joe stands up first.

“Ali? It’s so much fun doing this with you.” he says affectionately.

“And it’s so much fun having you as my vice-captain. And … my best friend.” Ali replies softly.

_I’m your best friend? Wow. Since when? Also, does this mean you and Jimmy…?_

Joe bites down a laugh. “Come here, Cookie monster.”

They embrace, hold each other tight. Ali closes his eyes. Feels Joe’s heart pound. “We can do it.”

“Yes.” Joe whispers.

 

Taking care not to make anyone suspicious, Ali announces that he is “just off to wash my hands”. Catches Jos pulling Joe to himself from the corner of his eye. Smiles and leaves the dressing room.

Finds Jimmy waiting for him underneath the staircase. “I’m getting a coffee.” Jimmy explains with a soft laugh. “But more importantly … how are you holding up?”

“Nerves.” Ali admits and takes Jimmy’s hand.

“Obviously, your hands are freezing.” Jimmy says affectionately and pulls Ali into a hug. “It’s just three wickets. I really wish I could finish the job for you…” – “us,” Ali corrects him – “us, obviously. But I’ll be up there. Watching. Willing you on. I’ve got a very good feeling about today.”

“And that means a lot, coming from you.” Ali points out. “I don’t do mindless optimism.” Jimmy laughs.

Ali looks at his … boyfriend ( _wow_ ). Sees nothing more than pride. Belief. Confidence. And some other emotions. Enough to make the butterflies in his belly dance.

“I’ll never let you go, Jim.” he whispers and presses his lips against Jimmy’s.

“You don’t have to.” Jimmy replies quietly. “I’m here. And now go on, win us that thing.”

 

Ali returns to the dressing room while the first strands of “Jerusalem” are ringing around the ground. As usual, Ian and Jonny are joining in with the anthem, as quietly as they can.

“Love this song.” Mark says and gives Ben a hug. “Tell me when you want to hand over bowling duties.” “ _And me, obviously_ ,” Ali interrupts Mark. “Sorry, Cooky. Of course. Was just trying to be nice.” Mark retorts. “

“Off we go.” Joe says and squeezes Jos’ hand.

 

The entire crowd rises to their feet as they walk out, shake hands with the Australians (Michael’s expression is more than odd, Ali thinks. Almost as if he’s already said his farewells).

Mitchell Starc and Adam Voges bump gloves and line up at the opposite ends of the wicket.

Ben stretches, throws the ball up, catches it. Closes his eyes.

Jimmy leans on the railing, glances up at the sky. “Just three more wickets.” he whispers.

A faint chuckle near him confirms that Trevor just had the exact same thought. “Let’s finish the job.” The coach pats Jimmy’s shoulder. “Come on, Stokesy.”

_Game on._

After just ten minutes of play, Mitchell Starc edges a delivery from Ben to Ian at second slip.

Eight down.

“Woody, you’re on!” Ali yells in Mark’s direction. Wonders if Mark understood him – the racket is incredible – but does not wait to check. _Two to go. This could all be over before lunch, like Jonny predicted._

“Over.” The umpire announces and the slip cordon changes ends. Joe winks at Ali and mouths “almost.”

Ali nods. Feels something sting at the back of his throat. _Not now. Not yet. It could still become a second Cardiff. Focus, Alastair. Still too early._

A sidelong glance at the rest of his boys – Jos, squatting behind the stumps with a determined expression, Ian, grinning to himself on Ali’s right, Ben, flexing his arms, probably getting ready for another one of those wonder catches.

A thumbs-up from Stuart, half-hidden behind his floppy white hat.

Another thumbs-up from upstairs, from the ECB box. Where Straussy, Ali is sure about that, is watching every single ball, hands buried in his suit pockets, too tense to react to anything else around him. Would probably give anything to be out there on the field with all of them right now.

 _I’ll make you proud, Andy,_ Ali thinks, ignores a weight at the back of his throat and crouches down again. Ready for the next ball.

 

Fifteen minutes later.

“I … YESSS!” Ian’s shout is echoed by everyone in his vicinity. For the second time this morning, the England fielders race to their bowler, embrace him as tightly as they can. A glorious yorker from Mark sends the stumps flying behind Josh Hazlewood.

_Nine. Nine down._

And for the first time this morning, Ali allows himself to finish the thought.

_We are a wicket away from winning the Ashes._

_A wicket away from redemption._

Jimmy, as much as he tries to avoid it, can’t help staring at the giant white nine on the scoreboard. The Australians are nine wickets down. Again. One more – for Stuart, or Mark, or Ben, or Steve – and they have won. And the urn is coming home again. Almost unbelievable after the last eighteen months. But Jimmy has seen – and played in – enough Tests to know even now, victory is far from a guarantee. Too often, last-wicket partnerships have lasted longer than anyone would have predicted. _I just have to think back to Cardiff six years ago._

Helplessly nervous, his hand reaches for his trusted old blue ball.  His fingers close around the leather and the feeling comforts him a bit.

A thought – a new one – crosses Jimmy’s mind. Is this what it feels like for the supporters? Watching a game unfold, knowing you can’t do a single thing about its outcome – and willing every ball to hit the stumps, every batsman to find the boundary? If that is the case, Jimmy can understand them.   _I would not be able to sit still either._

Down on the field, the tension has reached almost unbearable heights. Every ball has taken on even more meaning than usual. They can almost see the urn on the horizon … but they cannot, do not want to relax just yet.

Ali tries to shut out all thoughts, as he has done hundreds of times before when he is batting. But today, even his concentration techniques fail him. A sidelong glance up at the balcony tells him Jimmy is just as nervous as Ali – he has given up all pretence, removed his sunglasses and is pacing up and down.

_Just one more wicket. One more. I don’t even care who gets it. One more wicket and we...._

_Focus, for god’s sake. Focus!_

A laugh from the stumps tells Ali that he must have shouted that last part.

“You’re right, Cooky!” Jos tells him with an excited grin.

Joe salutes. “Keep going boys, keep going!” he shouts.

 

“Come on, boys.” Trevor, unable to keep calm any longer, has taken his hat off, clenches it between his hands. “Come on. You deserve it.”

Mark continues to attack, hit the Australians with blistering pace.  Every ball, every delivery is cheered on as if it was the final over of the World Cup final.

 

Ali’s mind wanders. Wanders back.

To that very first morning in Nagpur, more than nine years ago.

“Just keep doing what you’ve always been doing. You belong in this side. Make me proud.” He still remembers receiving that text from Graham, minutes before they had to hand their phones in for the day. Remembers the rush of pride, of self-confidence that simple message gave him.

_You’ve always been there for me, Graham. Right from the beginning. You built me up when I was at my lowest. You … I used to love watching you as a boy. And I never dreamed I would end up being your friend._

_Are you watching us now, Graham? Are you proud of me?_

Another ball from Mark. A bye. Which Mark greets with a shrug and a laugh (he is daft as a brush, Woody, but you can’t not love him).

 

Six and a half years ago. Ali just came back from his morning run, was about to prepare a muesli bowl, when his phone rang. Straussy. “You’re my new vice-captain, Ali.”

Ali stood still for a while, tried to let the message sink in. _Vice-captain. That’s the first step. They … they must believe in me. And …_ “Brilliant. I’ll do my best.” he eventually managed. Still recalls Straussy’s affectionate chuckle. “Of course you will. I’ve known you long enough.”

_And now, you’re my boss again. But you’re still the Andy I got to know all these years ago. My opening partner. My friend. One of my biggest supporters in the ECB._

_I don’t think I would have done this without you. I don’t think I would have hung on without you._

Almost three years ago.

The lounge in Heathrow Airport. A young blonde batsman caught Ali’s eye, gave him a shy grin. It took him a while to figure out who he was looking at ( _I’ll never be great with names)_. The youngster sat down next to Ali. They started to chat. And found themselves at ease with each other almost immediately. In a way that caught Ali by surprise back then – and still does now, when he thinks about it.

_That was the beginning. That was the first sign this wouldn’t be just an ordinary teammate. But I wouldn’t have believed it what was going to happen. That this slightly mischievous, funny, warm, friendly young colleague would turn out to be … well, Joe. Just Joe. With everything that name, that guy, my second-in-command means to me._

Joe must have guessed Ali is thinking about him.

They smile at each other (and to Ali’s surprise, he realises Joe’s eyes are starting to fill up with tears).

_Calm down, Joe. Not yet. Or you’ll set me off as well._

Ali swallows hard.

Into the 72nd over.

“It’s going to happen.” Ian says somewhere next to Ali’s right ear.

_And there was something else. Just three days ago._

_At night. In my room. Something I never, not in my wildest dreams, believed to be possible. I’d long ago resigned myself to it. That I would never have him this way. Even though it was undeniable to me that …_

_I love him._

_I have loved him for longer than I realise._

_And … he loves me too._

Ali feels his eyes beginning to burn. Blinks rapidly, does not want to lose focus. The last thing he wants, on this special morning, is to drop a catch. But …

 

Mark marks his run-up.

Charges in.

Releases the ball with breath-taking speed.

 

“That’s going for middle stu…”

 

A wooden stump cartwheel through the sky as Nathan Lyon, helpless, raises his bat.

 

Silence.

 

Then, pandemonium.

 

As one, the England fielders jump up, arms raised aloft. “FUCK YES!” someone yells – probably Ben. Jos drops his helmet, races over to Joe, falls into Joe’s arms. Holds him so tight Joe finds it hard to breathe, almost immediately breaks down sobbing. “I know…” Joe whispers and strokes Jos’ shoulder. Fights hard to keep the tears back.

_We have regained the Ashes._

Mark, shaking from head to toe, has not moved an inch, a stunned smile on his face.

“WOODY YOU IDIOT, COME HERE !” Ben yells over the explosions of noise around him.

_I have just won us the Ashes._

A smile turns into a beaming grin. Mark jumps up as high as he can.

And runs towards the rest of his team, nothing more than a giddy, bouncing, chanting, yelling pile.

 

Stuart, blinking as hard as he can, comes sprinting over from the boundary, hugs Ian from behind. “Five times, mate! FIVE TIMES!” “I KNOW! But I’d never have done this without you!” Ian shouts at him with a proud smile. They high-five.

_We have won the Ashes. At my home ground._

Ali is lost for words. Feels his heart race. The lump in his throat has grown, makes it impossible for him to speak. He closes his eyes and swallows. Once. Twice. Motions for his boys to get into a huddle.

Ten identical beaming faces look back at him. Tears are streaming down Jos’ face.

Joe looks like he is about to break down every second. Just nods at Ali.

“Remember this moment, boys! You earned it!” Ali manages past the tears threatening to spill out.

Instead of an answer, Stuart pulls his captain into a tight hug.

 

Eventually they realise that Adam Voges and Nathan Lyon are still standing there in the middle. Disappointed. Shattered.

_As shattered as we were, 18 months ago._

Joe is the first to make his way over to the Australian batsmen, shakes their hands, offers a friendly “well batted.” Earns two nods of acknowledgement.

Ali pulls the stumps out of the ground. Hands one to Ben, one to Mark and one to Joe.  “We wouldn’t have done this without you.” he tells a beaming Mark. Who proceeds to hold his prize aloft in triumph.

 

A short interview for TMS.

“I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry but I might, at some point,” Ali admits and gets a sympathetic grin and half a hug in return. Knows how badly his voice was shaking.

It is finally starting to sink in. Only 18 months ago, in Australia, everything seemed to be falling apart. Swanny and Jonathan left the tour early. Ali had stopped feeling like himself, the pressure finally got to him. It was only thanks to long walks on the beach with Jimmy (and to the first runs in the morning with Joe) that he hadn’t quit the captaincy as soon as they had got off the plane in London.

_And now we’re back where we belong._

 

Belatedly, Ali realises Joe has been looking at him for a while.

“We’ve done it. I mean … you’ve done it.” Joe says hoarsely.

They embrace, feel the other shake, fight back tears. “Oh come on, Joey, give yourself some credit. I could never…” Ali almost chokes himself off, “never have done this without you.”

Arms around each other, captain and vice-captain want to join  the rest of the team on their first victory lap of the ground … when Ali suddenly hears a familiar laugh behind him.

_The most wonderful laugh in the world._

“Hey, Jim.”

Jimmy does not say a word. Smiles at Ali. Proud beyond belief. Emotional beyond belief.

Ali flings his arms around Jimmy’s neck. Holds him for a while.

_I can’t talk right now._

_I know._ Jimmy strokes Ali’s back. _This … this is our redemption._

_Your redemption._

 

“Over here, you idiot!” Stuart waves at Jimmy. _That was a very suspicious hug. Are you telling me…?_

Jimmy rolls his eyes fondly and leaves Ali to embrace his best friend. “I am so incredibly proud of you.” Smiles as he realises Stuart is on the verge of tears.

_I know. We’ve … we’ve been through so much since Australia. And now we’re back._

 

Posing for photos, joining in the chants, Mark riding his imaginary horse around the outfield – the England team must have broken the world record for the slowest ever victory lap after a test match, none of them particularly willing to leave the pitch just yet.

After they make it back to the dressing room, Paul and Trevor waiting at the top end of the stairs to pull everyone into a hug, Joe disappears for a second. Returns to hysterical laughter, wearing an Albert Einstein mask, proceeds to give Ian Ward an interview, doing his best impression of Bob Willis.

“You are so stupid, Rooty.” Ian gives Joe a punch on the shoulder. “Thanks, Ronald.” Joe laughs. “Can I try the mask on now?” “Of course!”

“Lads!” Trevor interrupts them while beers make the rounds through the dressing room. “Need to borrow Stuart and Ali for a bit! The presentations are about to begin.”

 _Sure you can do this?_ Joe looks at Ali with a telling smile.

 _I have to._ Ali shrugs. Blinks.

“I’m with you,” Joe whispers as Ali walks past him and follows Stuart down the stairs.

 

While Ali and Stuart wait to be called up by a beaming Michael Atherton, the last thing Ali thought possible, happens.

Michael Clarke, in his green tracksuit, wanders over. Stops a foot ahead of Ali.

The Australian captain smiles sadly as they shake hands. “Well done. That was the perfect match plan.” “I wasn’t planning for Stuart to get eight.” Ali admits with a grin. “Best spell of bowling I rather wish I’d never witnessed.” says Michael. They laugh. As much as Michael can cross the line on the field – Ali remembers a certain _broken fucking arm –_ once a test is over, he’s actually quite likeable. “Anyway…” Michael sighs. “It was fun.” Ali catches the meaning between the lines and stares at him. “You’re not….”

But that was as personal as Michael allows himself to get.

Ali watches him walk over, accept his medal and then give an emotional speech. He is retiring, the signs were actually plain for everyone to see. Phil’s death in November was probably the last straw.

Ali looks up at his boys.  Jimmy and Steve, arms around each other, give off their best Blues brothers impression. Ian, as much as he insists he’s been there, done that, is grinning just as widely as he did when he won his first Ashes all those years ago. Jonny has obviously told something very funny to Mark and Ben from the way all three of them are laughing. Joe – almost as emotional as Ali - winks at him.

Ali feels a rush of affection towards each of them. This is his team, in a way their last Ashes winning team has never been, despite Swanny.  And they are still so very young, most of them.

“Double Ashes-winning captain, mate.” Stuart says quietly, puts an arm around Ali’s shoulders and squeezes them. “Sounds great, doesn’t it?” he adds proudly.

Ali simply smiles. The tears threaten to break out.

“And now, would you please welcome England’s Alastair Cook!”

 

Affectionate applause.

“What’s your reaction to the news Michael’s retiring at the end of the series?” Michael Atherton asks, smiling from one ear to the other after they have shaken hands.

Ali collects himself.

“To Michael, from the England team … we’ve had our share of tough moments, but you should be remembered for a great captain and a fantastic cricketer. So, congratulations.” Ali replies and means it.

“It’s 599 days after England handed the Ashes over at Perth …” – a very telling pause. “Can you believe it?” Michael Atherton continues, after the applause has died down.

_599 days. 18 months of hell. Of almost wanting to give up. I probably would have if it hadn’t been for my family. My friends. Our supporters. And … my Jimmy._

“No, I can’t.” Ali’s voice starts to shake.

“Sorry,” he continues after he swallows, tries to keep his emotions in check. “Michael’s got emotional and it’s made me emotional…” Applause from the stands. “I can’t believe what we’ve just achieved after these past 18 months …” _I almost can’t go on._ He tries again. “I mean … from where we’ve been over the last 18 months to what we’ve just achieved over these past three days is quite incredible…” His eyes burn. The tears make it impossible to see anything. He is no longer able to keep his voice steady. “I’m… incredibly proud of the lads.”

A sob escapes him. He squeezes his eyes shut again, tries to keep breathing as evenly as he can. Around him, cheers and sympathetic claps – and a very telling laugh from his interviewer. Who is undoubtedly thinking back to his own playing days.

 

Somehow, Ali manages to make it through the rest of his interview without breaking down completely. _I can’t wait to be back with my boys,_ he tells himself while he climbs up the stairs, shakes hands with a few excited supporters. _My boys. My team. I could not have done this without them._

A triumphant horde, led by Stuart and Joe, waits for him. Listens to a quite unmusical mixture of some choice Barmy Army chants, “The Winner Takes It All” from someone’s mobile phone and god knows what that techno music is they can hear in the distance.

Watching Ali almost choke up on the pitch … well, that was the point it really hit most of them. He’s usually so …  bashful but collected in front of the media.  But when his voice started to waver as he said “I’m incredibly proud of the lads….” they finally realised just how big the weight on Ali’s shoulders was. And just how much this means to him personally.

Stuart does not even try to hide his tears any longer. It is the proudest moment of his England career. Winning the Ashes on your home ground is one thing but setting a new personal record in the process…. not even the World Cup could surpass that.

When Ali meets the rest of the team, everyone keeps standing where they are for a moment.

With shining eyes – and shaking, Jimmy notes - Ali silently gestures towards the dressing room. Finally, time to celebrate. Away from cameras and spectators. “After you.” Mark says with a grand gesture and opens the door.

They flop themselves on benches, or in Finny’s case on the ground, and everyone looks around at their captain.

“You were magnificent. Not today. All summer.” Ian says earnestly. “And we don’t ever want to hear you doubt yourself again.” Jonny adds with a flourish. “You know you’re good enough. No, you’re great.” “Ali, that was a masterclass in captaincy.” says Steve from the floor and leads the entire room in a round of applause.

_What have I done to deserve such friends?_

Ali meets Jimmy’s eyes. For the first time since their victory lap.

With a start, he realises Jimmy is fighting back tears as well.

That is the final straw.

Ali tries to speak but words fail him. “Come here.” Jimmy says softly.

The floodgates break.

Sobbing, Ali sinks into Jimmy’s arms as Jimmy hugs him tight and closes his eyes, letting his softer emotions – for once – get the better of him.

For a while, all is quiet in the dressing room. When Jimmy finally lets Ali go, everyone else hugs their captain again, touched by his reaction.

“Do I need to remind you we just won the bloody Ashes?” Typical of Ben to break the silence, get them back down to earth again.

Laughter rings around the room and Joe clears his throat.

“Mark, get your iPhone. Let’s get this party started!”

 

Ian hands a beer to everyone and a Coca-Cola to Mark and Mo. “I cannot believe it. Thirteen days. Just thirteen days.” he says with a proud grin while Mark turns the volume of his loudspeakers up to eleven and an unrecognisable song fills the room.

“Have we really done this?” Jos, leaning back against Joe’s arm, laughs and toasts Ian.

“I think we have. We have REGAINED THE BLOODY ASHES!” Ben can not help but yell the end of the sentence.

Renewed loud cheers and applause. High-fives. Quite energetic ones. Adam has to rub his hand.

“So, anyway, what was your favourite moment from the series?” Mo asks his teammates, passes a bag of biscuits around the room.

 

Nobody is paying attention to Ali and Jimmy while they rack their brains.

 _Thank god,_ Ali bites down a laugh and inches a little bit closer to Jimmy. Close enough to…

“Wait a second. Are you holding hands?”

_Shit._

_Joseph Edward Root._

_You bloody perceptive bloody insubordinate loveable cheeky idiot._

Silence falls. Mark presses pause on his iPhone.

Thirteen faces turn around, look at their captain and their leading wicket-taker.

 

Jimmy’s own face resembles a traffic light. He can practically feel the heat radiating off him. _So much for keeping it a secret. Now all of them have found out at the same time. Shit._

Ali shoots Jimmy a look. _It was bound to happen at some point,_ he grins and shrugs slightly awkwardly. Holds Jimmy’s hand a little tighter.

 

“Isn’t anyone going to bloody say anything?” Jimmy grumbles.

“Since … when?” Ben asks with an incredulous laugh.

“Wednesday,” Ali answers.

 

At which point Joe and Stuart both simultaneously let out an audible gasp.

Followed by a – hilarious – high-five. And laughs.

“What on earth is wrong with you?” Jos punches Joe’s side. “Later.” Joe manages and wipes tears of laughter from his eyes. “I – finally.” Joe gets up, shoots Jimmy a look – _may I?_. Jimmy simply nods. Can not help but laugh as well as Joe embraces Ali.

And Stuart follows Joe’s example and embraces Jimmy.

 

“Took you long enough,” Stuart tells his best friend with a grin.

“What are you on about?” Jimmy raises an eyebrow but can’t fail to hide a stupid smile.

“That’s a story for another day,” Stuart replies. “Oh definitely.” Joe returns.

 

“So … you’re dating.” Mo smiles at Ali and Jimmy. “Well … congratulations.”

“Yep, it was about time.” Mark chimes in. “What?” “I mean … it was kind of obvious to all of us. Or at least it has been since Spain.” Ben points out with a laugh.

“You are unbelievable, boys,” Ali breaks down in a fit of giggles.

“And you’ re so cute it makes my teeth rot,” Ben complains while Jimmy kisses Ali’s cheek.

“Jealous?” Jimmy rounds on Ben with a grin.

“Absolutely not. Happy for you.” Ben replies fondly.

 

“Shall we order pizza now?” Jonny interrupts the discussions. “I’m starving.”

“Fine! Trev, you’re paying!” Joe shouts in the general direction of the balcony.

A fresh wave of laughter.

 

Ali wraps his arms around Jimmy and looks at everyone in turn.

_What an incredible day. What an incredible achievement. What a feeling._

_It was all worth it in the end._

_I have the best job in the world._

_I have the best friends in the world._

_I can not imagine being anywhere else right now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnAwPeqrdAk
> 
> Definitely listen from the ninth wicket.


End file.
